tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-59908194768409750012019-02-19T14:00:19.108+02:00Velo TalesVelouriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06667777448042670759noreply@blogger.comBlogger176125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5990819476840975001.post-75356068789116307032018-11-30T14:54:00.001+02:002018-11-30T14:54:49.735+02:00The Double Century 2018<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Few things elicit more excitement in the South African cycling community than the Double Century. Sure, there's Epic or The Argus, but they are not in the same league as the DC. Somehow, this event has captured the imagination of all road cyclists as the must-do event on the calendar. Twelve like minded race snakes undertaking a&nbsp;202 kilometre adventure through the majestic hills of the Overberg.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_6MYduM4eL0/XAEkKcXljpI/AAAAAAABS4s/l_GhFZXDl4c3Bcj8lR-VuW5uKbhic82TgCKgBGAs/s1600/1YeQDNNIoUenl9aPGTo20qB5_p4g0ULFr3OI139UI_M-2048x1536.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_6MYduM4eL0/XAEkKcXljpI/AAAAAAABS4s/l_GhFZXDl4c3Bcj8lR-VuW5uKbhic82TgCKgBGAs/s1600/1YeQDNNIoUenl9aPGTo20qB5_p4g0ULFr3OI139UI_M-2048x1536.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Team Cape Cycle Tours</td></tr></tbody></table>The Double Century is a super serious event. Every team is busy with DC prep for ages. Team&nbsp;members are selected months in advance through a rigorous&nbsp;selection process that includes PPA seeding and Strava performances.&nbsp;Special&nbsp;kit is designed and made by seamstresses in Italy. Compulsory training camps happen all over the country in secluded towns. Formation riding is finetuned. Strategy sessions with copious amounts of coconut water are held in dark rooms away from prying eyes. Scenarios are laid out to cover every possible permutation of what can happen on race day.<br /><br />Except for us. We are a cobbled together collection of bike riding strangers. Our team members are not so much selected, but rather accepted. We exploit personal friendships in the hunt for riders. We scour the Bike Hub for potential candidates. We spam the Double Century notice boards with promises of glory and fame in the hope of just getting a response. After some committed Strava stalking and RaceTec corroboration, tentative invites are sent out and our team slowly starts to take shape.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tljdeUz_62Q/XAEkuQgYwvI/AAAAAAABS5M/nlg16jv6yQUi699Nw9Q7h3P3E_SC-CU7QCKgBGAs/s1600/Screenshot%2B2018-11-30.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="294" data-original-width="306" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tljdeUz_62Q/XAEkuQgYwvI/AAAAAAABS5M/nlg16jv6yQUi699Nw9Q7h3P3E_SC-CU7QCKgBGAs/s1600/Screenshot%2B2018-11-30.png" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An idea for an app - Tinder for DC riders</td></tr></tbody></table>With the <a href="https://www.velotales.com/2017/12/the-double-century-2017.html">trauma of 2017</a> still fresh in our minds, and the face of Nic Dlamini still haunting our dreams, we opted to enter a mixed team. While this meant an easier shot at fame and glory, it also presented us with the rather large challenge of finding some racing ladies. There are probably better odds on finding that <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Malaysia_Airlines_Flight_370">missing Malaysian airliner</a> than there are on rocking up on the start line with four ladies. While the rules state that you need three ladies in your team to be considered a mixed team, we like to play it safe and have a reserve. Guys are expendable, ladies are not! Needless to say, we only managed to find 3 fast ladies (and that airliner is still missing).<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-sJYPXaBe_HI/XAElGIWR7qI/AAAAAAABS5Y/-XG3M9FKHRQFzE7PCmSCtJ11Ed0qbIJ9ACKgBGAs/s1600/WhatsApp%2BImage%2B2018-11-25%2Bat%2B10.45.56.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="962" data-original-width="1280" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-sJYPXaBe_HI/XAElGIWR7qI/AAAAAAABS5Y/-XG3M9FKHRQFzE7PCmSCtJ11Ed0qbIJ9ACKgBGAs/s1600/WhatsApp%2BImage%2B2018-11-25%2Bat%2B10.45.56.jpeg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our three very fast ladies, and their beautiful kit</td></tr></tbody></table>At the best of times, Captain Craig and I hover very close to the edge of chaos. Occasionally we dip our toes into the puddle of pandemonium, and other times we dive headfirst into the dam of disorder. And that's just the two of us. There is a very real risk when building a team of 12 strangers that our Double Century aspirations will be over before we even cross the start line. Only 9 people rock up on race day. The backup vehicle leaves without our&nbsp;snacks and replenishments in it. We drop our first person two kilometres from the start on the climb out of Swellendam. Four riders ride off the front and we don't see them again. We race each other up the climbs in a show of testosterone and ego, shelling riders everywhere. We do a mixture of a rolling paceline and a single file through and off, achieving nothing. We have more people in the backup vehicle than we have out on the road. And lastly, we lose the ability to count to six and cross the line with just five riders. (All true stories)<br /><br />But we needn't have worried about repeating those mistakes. We had Lloyd with two l's. Not only did he manage to recruit nearly every decent rider in Joburg into our team, but he also took over the responsibility of thinking about everything. And I mean EVERYTHING.<br /><br />What formation should we ride in (with emoji art):<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6whWzsmVRrE/XAD6UnO7iAI/AAAAAAABS3M/8mFmtvRvFBo2K7InM5XM5XBwwnGwwaP7QCKgBGAs/s1600/Screenshot_20181130-104200_WhatsApp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1047" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6whWzsmVRrE/XAD6UnO7iAI/AAAAAAABS3M/8mFmtvRvFBo2K7InM5XM5XBwwnGwwaP7QCKgBGAs/s1600/Screenshot_20181130-104200_WhatsApp.jpg" width="540" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Where to put your timing chip:<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ocX5-9ovtW8/XAD6Unk2fyI/AAAAAAABS3M/_zQhVkZTfdwekp-uHpSROmtSkCf2MqPAQCKgBGAs/s1600/Screenshot_20181130-104510_WhatsApp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="557" data-original-width="1080" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ocX5-9ovtW8/XAD6Unk2fyI/AAAAAAABS3M/_zQhVkZTfdwekp-uHpSROmtSkCf2MqPAQCKgBGAs/s1600/Screenshot_20181130-104510_WhatsApp.jpg" width="540" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Who the competition might be (and the author of the post that broke the internet):<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jkDZFCdmxTY/XAD6Uri-vKI/AAAAAAABS3M/99oZeXHtyo417VwB7kSJUuPvOSuRsGrGACKgBGAs/s1600/Screenshot_20181130-104822_WhatsApp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="961" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jkDZFCdmxTY/XAD6Uri-vKI/AAAAAAABS3M/99oZeXHtyo417VwB7kSJUuPvOSuRsGrGACKgBGAs/s1600/Screenshot_20181130-104822_WhatsApp.jpg" width="540" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Scenarios we need to consider:<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RUVsK6py8JU/XAD6UiiD9aI/AAAAAAABS3M/gFWP4ib39SotB08QNziZtIVIiyappEr1gCKgBGAs/s1600/Screenshot_20181130-104440_WhatsApp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="956" data-original-width="1080" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RUVsK6py8JU/XAD6UiiD9aI/AAAAAAABS3M/gFWP4ib39SotB08QNziZtIVIiyappEr1gCKgBGAs/s1600/Screenshot_20181130-104440_WhatsApp.jpg" width="540" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>A key event in the run-up to the Double Century is the pre-race dinner. It's the first opportunity we get to suss each other out and the last opportunity we have to fine-tune Lloyd's various strategies, formations, and tactics. It's also a good opportunity to gauge the seriousness of the team, indicated by the amount of red wine consumed. I have a theory - there is a relationship between the amount of wine consumed and the performance on race day, obviously to an upper limit on wine consumption. The teams that I've ridden in that didn't talk about the race beforehand over a glass of wine also didn't talk to each other during the race, let alone afterwards.<br /><br />Race day dawned, and after the customary team photo, we had our first team ride - down the hill to the start line. This was not before eagle-eyed Robyn, our silent poker playing assassin spotted a fineable offence - a tear in my front tyre and the tube peeking out. There is nothing like a bit of performance anxiety when it comes to changing a tyre in front of the entire team, especially given my habit of usually butchering the entire operation. But, as would later become a theme for the whole team, my nerves held, and with a bit of luck I had a brand new front tyre fitted in record time (an old-school 23mm wire bead Gatorskin from Andy, but beggars can't be choosers).<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TvEGlVuxM1Y/XAElCSvJ_lI/AAAAAAABS5U/XVH6ec-q4R4ItbGtdppNpk-hUPBWK73SACKgBGAs/s1600/WhatsApp%2BImage%2B2018-11-27%2Bat%2B15.52.00.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="858" data-original-width="1280" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TvEGlVuxM1Y/XAElCSvJ_lI/AAAAAAABS5U/XVH6ec-q4R4ItbGtdppNpk-hUPBWK73SACKgBGAs/s1600/WhatsApp%2BImage%2B2018-11-27%2Bat%2B15.52.00.jpeg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"One of the favourites in the mixed competition"</td></tr></tbody></table>As Team <a href="http://capecycletours.com/">Cape Cycle Tours</a> approached the start line, with Andy already starting to exhibit a slight sheen of sweat, we began to get a hint of the calibre of riders we had. Obviously, our racing ladies stole the show with seemingly everyone knowing them, their funky cycling kit only adding to the spectacle. The upcountry imports didn't seem out of place either - the usual up and down looks being exchanged all over the place (look at the legs, look at the belly, look at the bike, look at the legs again, look at the face - and then give the nod of "I see you've been doing some training").<br /><br />Any thoughts that we'd managed to slip under the radar quickly vanished when, with moments to go before our start, the announcer introduced us as one of the favourites in the mixed team category. Nothing like a bit of last-minute pressure. But we needn't have worried for we had Mike. Cool-headed Mike. You can discuss strategy as much as you like but in the oxygen-starved environment that is a racing paceline, if you don't have someone to reign in the egos and correct any minor infringements, chaos will ensue. Mike was our guy - a quiet bit of encouragement here, a hushed scolding there, keeping us all focused on the goal ahead of us.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ehS3fZvv52o/XAEr-4vT_fI/AAAAAAABS6c/3MfEUlh-9VMVVXunRDhyKjc_nuXUqnaEQCKgBGAs/s1600/WhatsApp%2BImage%2B2018-11-27%2Bat%2B06.55.59.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="850" data-original-width="1280" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ehS3fZvv52o/XAEr-4vT_fI/AAAAAAABS6c/3MfEUlh-9VMVVXunRDhyKjc_nuXUqnaEQCKgBGAs/s1600/WhatsApp%2BImage%2B2018-11-27%2Bat%2B06.55.59.jpeg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Ginger wheelsucking the ladies</td></tr></tbody></table>The hardest part about riding in a mixed&nbsp;team is, as a male, having to engage your brain rather than just riding on pure testosterone. You have to constantly be aware of where the ladies are, and where possible, selflessly ride to keep them safe and sheltered. You need to develop skills to figure out how they're doing and how they're feeling (kind of like any relationship I guess). It's like an epic poker game - you learn to read body language, looking for the telltale signs of suffering. "I'm fine" Robyn is the master of suffering inside and giving nothing away. On the other end of the spectrum, you have Lise who'll tell you in no uncertain terms what and how she is feeling, and what you can do about it! And somewhere in the middle, we had "The Other One" - Lara, who, as the ride got longer just seemed to get stronger and stronger.<br /><br />We made the first stop in good time and in good spirits, unaware that we were currently one minute up the other mixed teams. A quick snack, some liquid replenishments, a toilet stop and a hissy fit about a missing cooler bag later we were back on the road - Gary the backup catering to all our needs, including the missing cooler box.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9uwPdmO631s/XAEl428t9xI/AAAAAAABS6E/HO7QkEOc_tYHyqB_WfuME_d_JICnvFKgQCKgBGAs/s1600/20181124_151448.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9uwPdmO631s/XAEl428t9xI/AAAAAAABS6E/HO7QkEOc_tYHyqB_WfuME_d_JICnvFKgQCKgBGAs/s320/20181124_151448.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Salty</td></tr></tbody></table>By this point, we'd mostly figured each other out to the point that the ladies were starting to dish out nicknames. Andy was carrying about 3 kilograms of salt encrusted&nbsp;on his shirt, and was aptly named Salty. Stiaan, the man mountain who missed a calling to play lock for the Springboks was feeling the Cape heat and had earned the nickname Sweaty. Lloyd, still eager to do well, was continuously riding off the front of our group causing the speed to fluctuate wildly, was Surgy. And Mike was still marshalling the troops, maintaining the focus and keeping us in order. Gluey.<br /><br /><div align="center"><blockquote class="instagram-media" data-instgrm-captioned="" data-instgrm-permalink="https://www.instagram.com/p/BqmQ5d9nCPh/?utm_source=ig_embed&amp;utm_medium=loading" data-instgrm-version="12" style="background: #fff; border-radius: 3px; border: 0; box-shadow: 0 0 1px 0 rgba(0 , 0 , 0 , 0.5) , 0 1px 10px 0 rgba(0 , 0 , 0 , 0.15); margin: 1px; max-width: 540px; min-width: 326px; padding: 0; width: 99.375%;"><div style="padding: 16px;"><a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BqmQ5d9nCPh/?utm_source=ig_embed&amp;utm_medium=loading" style="background: #FFFFFF; line-height: 0; padding: 0 0; text-align: center; text-decoration: none; width: 100%;" target="_blank"> </a><br /><div style="align-items: center; display: flex; flex-direction: row;"><div style="background-color: #f4f4f4; border-radius: 50%; flex-grow: 0; height: 40px; margin-right: 14px; width: 40px;"></div><div style="display: flex; flex-direction: column; flex-grow: 1; justify-content: center;"><div style="background-color: #f4f4f4; 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font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-weight: 550; line-height: 18px;"><a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BqmQ5d9nCPh/?utm_source=ig_embed&amp;utm_medium=loading" style="background: #FFFFFF; line-height: 0; padding: 0 0; text-align: center; text-decoration: none; width: 100%;" target="_blank">View this post on Instagram</a></div></div><div style="padding: 12.5% 0;"></div><a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BqmQ5d9nCPh/?utm_source=ig_embed&amp;utm_medium=loading" style="background: #FFFFFF; line-height: 0; padding: 0 0; text-align: center; text-decoration: none; width: 100%;" target="_blank"> </a><br /><div style="align-items: center; display: flex; flex-direction: row; margin-bottom: 14px;"><div><div style="background-color: #f4f4f4; border-radius: 50%; height: 12.5px; transform: translatex(0px) translatey(7px); width: 12.5px;"></div><div style="background-color: #f4f4f4; height: 12.5px; margin-left: 2px; margin-right: 14px; transform: rotate(-45deg) translatex(3px) translatey(1px); 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line-height: 0; padding: 0 0; text-align: center; text-decoration: none; width: 100%;" target="_blank"></a> <br /><div style="margin: 8px 0 0 0; padding: 0 4px;"><a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BqmQ5d9nCPh/?utm_source=ig_embed&amp;utm_medium=loading" style="color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 17px; text-decoration: none; word-wrap: break-word;" target="_blank">How are your legs feeling this morning? #CoronationDC</a></div><div style="color: #c9c8cd; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 0; margin-top: 8px; overflow: hidden; padding: 8px 0 7px; text-align: center; text-overflow: ellipsis; white-space: nowrap;">A post shared by <a href="https://www.instagram.com/coronationdc/?utm_source=ig_embed&amp;utm_medium=loading" style="color: #c9c8cd; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 17px;" target="_blank"> Coronation Double Century</a> (@coronationdc) on <time datetime="2018-11-25T09:13:36+00:00" style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17px;">Nov 25, 2018 at 1:13am PST</time></div></div></blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"><script async="" src="//www.instagram.com/embed.js"></script> The second leg was mostly uneventful, except for the realisation that a rather nasty block headwind would be keeping us company all the way back into Swellendam. We needed to make time, but we also needed to make sure we didn't over do things on this leg. With only the wind for company, Team Cape Cycle Tours made good progress, and before long we were enjoying the delicacies that our coolerboxes had to offer. And we still had a minute lead - if only we'd known. We were ready for the last leg.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Except for Stiaan. The man mountain was going no further. The beginnings of a mini-uprising were playing out before our eyes, with the risk that the rebellion would spread. I could see The Ginger was trying to decide where his allegiances lay. Captain Craig stepped up and in his best "Have you had a Gu" voice tried to coax Sweaty back from the edge. Promises were made. Threats were exchanged. The end result being that Stiaan would continue on his bike. But looking at the scene unfold I could tell we'd lost him to our cause a long long time ago.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The final leg is what we'd all been waiting for. The leg where we'd all do whatever we could to get our ladies to the finish line as fast as possible. As Mike's sense of humour was failing, he summarised the plan like this:</div><br /><blockquote class="tr_bq">If you're not blocking the wind or pushing a lady, you're not contributing. F*** off to the back</blockquote><div style="text-align: left;">And Surgy slowly slunk off to the back.</div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9_YIFZq6xrM/XAElUpklrNI/AAAAAAABS5c/aIJGVHhocqwb2l4AnNDpiPTbpCQRlC_KQCKgBGAs/s1600/IMG-20181124-WA0015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1001" data-original-width="1280" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9_YIFZq6xrM/XAElUpklrNI/AAAAAAABS5c/aIJGVHhocqwb2l4AnNDpiPTbpCQRlC_KQCKgBGAs/s1600/IMG-20181124-WA0015.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Job done</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;">The last 30 kilometres are a time for tough decisions. Do you push hard and shell riders out the back? Do you wait for the Jarrett as he danglings off the back in the hope that he can contribute later? Lara had her own life or death decision to make - endure the discomfort of being pushed by the small of her back, or hang onto one of Andy's salt-encrusted pockets and have to disinfect her hand once we crossed the finish line?</div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3MAjHgz5DLE/XAElUlYomEI/AAAAAAABS5c/4mk9y2O8gRwaoxRfCF0rmj654no-PXKGQCKgBGAs/s1600/265_7067.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1063" data-original-width="1600" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3MAjHgz5DLE/XAElUlYomEI/AAAAAAABS5c/4mk9y2O8gRwaoxRfCF0rmj654no-PXKGQCKgBGAs/s1600/265_7067.JPG" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The biggest and smallest team members are missing</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;">The Three Sisters flew by in slow motion, a haze of suffering disconnecting us from the real world. Pushing. Pulling. Sheltering. Blocking. Driving on the front. One pedal stroke at a time. One pedal stroke closer to the finish. And then we turned up the final climb to the finish line. One last effort. And just like that, it was all over. The joy of crossing the line. The sadness that the adventure was partly over (there was still the fines meeting). The anxious moments while we waited to see where we'd come.</div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-o0sGDj6gb0M/XAElUldggbI/AAAAAAABS5c/HxeLSGa9Yoc9yQkYEXdJ3YRswSh0ribdACKgBGAs/s1600/IMG-20181124-WA0008.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-o0sGDj6gb0M/XAElUldggbI/AAAAAAABS5c/HxeLSGa9Yoc9yQkYEXdJ3YRswSh0ribdACKgBGAs/s1600/IMG-20181124-WA0008.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sweaty, Salty, Jarrett the Kid, The Ginger, Pokerface Robyn, Lara the Other One, Lise, Alex, me, Surgy, Captain Craig, Gluey</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;">And then we heard - second place - 66 seconds down on first. And while we could spend months analysing where we lost those 66 seconds (and I'm sure Lloyd is doing that right now), it didn't really matter. We'd given it a decent go. We'd ridden hard. But we'd had fun along the way. And I don't think I'd swop that for anything. We'd started out as twelve strangers, and finished as twelve (almost) victorious friends. And that's exactly why I ride bikes.</div><br /><br /><blockquote align="center" class="twitter-tweet" data-lang="en"><div dir="ltr" lang="en">RESULTS<br />Mixed<br />1. Bluff Meat Supply Mixed 05:12:36<br />2. Cape Cycle Tours 05:13:42<br />3. Pure Savage Mixed Racing 05:36:32 <a href="https://t.co/wAu8AhLAzs">pic.twitter.com/wAu8AhLAzs</a></div>— Coronation DC (@TheCoronationDC) <a href="https://twitter.com/TheCoronationDC/status/1066350062895288320?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">November 24, 2018</a></blockquote><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="https://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script></div><br /><br /><br />* I haven't forgotten about Alex, but, just like the fines meeting where he wasn't fined once, I cannot recall a particular incident that he was involved in. He was just there, doing what needed to be done. The perfect teammate.</div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/VeloTales/~4/5mpk8jJUGI0" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Velouriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06667777448042670759noreply@blogger.com0http://www.velotales.com/2018/11/the-double-century-2018.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5990819476840975001.post-56067010212602982332018-08-16T15:27:00.000+02:002018-08-16T16:50:32.724+02:00TransBaviaans 2018<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">It has been said that time heals all wounds, and on the Friday before the start of the 2018 TransBaviaans, I would have agreed with these wise words. But when we got to registration and realised that, in my 15th Baviaans, we would be starting in the unseeded cattle pen, all the disappointment and unhappiness from <a href="http://www.velotales.com/2017/08/trans-baviaans-2017.html">2017</a> came flooding back. Hector the Memory Resurrector.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-WpFlNG5cua8/W3VoYN7oM_I/AAAAAAABPFM/0Av-Vr8oYR4wosOB5Lp3iyOYpjeuq-_oQCKgBGAs/s1600/IMG-20180811-WA0015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-WpFlNG5cua8/W3VoYN7oM_I/AAAAAAABPFM/0Av-Vr8oYR4wosOB5Lp3iyOYpjeuq-_oQCKgBGAs/s1600/IMG-20180811-WA0015.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's all laughs and giggles until you realise you're not seeded.</td></tr></tbody></table>There are clearly two tiers at Baviaans, the race snakes and the rest. The race snakes get to start at the front, they get to hear the loudspeakers, the national anthem, and the race briefing. They get a clear run from the gun down an open road and off into the Baviaanskloof. Meanwhile, the unseeded are crammed into the back of a parking lot like cows in a pen. It's cramped, it's noisy, and it's smelly. Really really smelly. There is nothing as toxic as the contents of portaloo at the start of a bicycle race. And where are the portaloos situated? Amongst the riders in cattle class. And to make matters worse, there was a stream of blue toilet juice steadily leaking from one of the portaloos and pooling in the centre of the start pen. And it was in this very puddle of blue toilet juice that Captain Craig and I found ourselves as we waited for the start. We'd done our best to push our way as far forward as possible, much to the annoyance of those around us. Yes, - we were those guys. Captain Craig was even confronted by a Camelbak wearing fellow bike rider:<br /><blockquote class="tr_bq">"Stop pushing through - we're competitive too"</blockquote>to which he replied with a sly grin:<br /><blockquote class="tr_bq">"Yeah, but not as competitive as us"</blockquote>With much fanfare, the gun finally went off. There was shouting and cheering and the sound of motorbikes disappearing down the main road as they led the seeded riders off towards the Kloof. From our stationary spot in the blue toilet juice, we couldn't actually see any of this. For three minutes we imagined what was going on up front - the jostling for positions, the gnashing of teeth - as the race snakes set off for JBay. And finally, we started moving. A slow crawl at first, followed by a gentle Saturday cruise down through the back roads of Willowmore as we ducked and dived through riders. Masses and masses of riders. While we didn't realise it at the time, we were in for a definite <a href="https://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=salmon%20day">salmon day</a>.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-JHKJxx650YE/W3Voeg_UeQI/AAAAAAABPFQ/ROBdfdhhJtkvXd6dTB8OR-l_rYJ0ZoS0wCKgBGAs/s1600/20180811_083321.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-JHKJxx650YE/W3Voeg_UeQI/AAAAAAABPFQ/ROBdfdhhJtkvXd6dTB8OR-l_rYJ0ZoS0wCKgBGAs/s1600/20180811_083321.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I doubt anyone got service like this!</td></tr></tbody></table>The conditions for TransBaviaans are a topic of conversation that starts several weeks in advance of race day. Both the conditions of the road surface, which can vary from glass-smooth, to as bumpy as a rural road in the Eastern Cape (oh, wait), and the weather conditions. While there isn't much we can do to prepare for the road conditions apart from grumble on social media, we certainly can prepare for the weather conditions. Captain Craig and I must have had more costume changes before the start than a beauty pageant contestant. A weather forecast of 3 degrees meant that we started in thick arm and knee warmers, an undershirt and a gilet, before switching to thin knee and arm warmers as the sun started climbing in the sky. Next to go was the undershirt. And soon the knee warmers were off completely, and we were applying sunscreen. (Mental note - next time apply sunscreen under the arm warmers too!)<br /><br />Like most events that Captain Craig and I do together, we had formulated a rock-solid strategy beforehand. Given the fact that we were probably not going to get too much help from our fellow "competitive" riders from the cattle pen, we were going to ride at a steady pace, keep out of trouble, and just bide our time for the first 100 kilometres. And like most events that Captain Craig and I do together, as soon as the wheels start turning, the strategy goes out the window. We had targets to chase. So many targets. And Captain Craig was in a target-hunting mood!<br /><br />I'd spent my days before TransBaviaans within 50 feet of a toilet at all times, and it was with this same determination and commitment that I stayed at least 20 feet from the front of any bunches that we found ourselves in. And when we weren't in a bunch, Captain Craig was doing all chasing. We'd reel a bunch in, Captain Craig would look over his shoulder and tell me that this was the perfect bunch - we could just sit in here. And then he'd disappear off the front and I'd have to chase him down. Over and over again.<br /><br /><blockquote align="center" class="twitter-tweet" data-lang="en"><div dir="ltr" lang="en">Things you don't want to hear from your partner 2 weeks before your 15th <a href="https://twitter.com/EcoBoundMTB?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">@EcoBoundMTB</a> <a href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/TransBaviaans?src=hash&amp;ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">#TransBaviaans</a>: "I just broke my <a href="https://twitter.com/wattbikeSA?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">@wattbikeSA</a> during power intervals"😱😟🔋⚡️💪 <a href="https://t.co/YaVnDVybPn">pic.twitter.com/YaVnDVybPn</a></div>— Dane Walsh (@velotales) <a href="https://twitter.com/velotales/status/1023589945305432064?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">July 29, 2018</a></blockquote><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="https://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script> <br />Cyclists are shameless and chivalry in the peloton is dead. For kilometre after kilometre, as we chased onto a group containing the leading ladies, we watched as 15 guys wheelsucked the ladies, not offering a single turn on the front. I shamelessly joined the wheelsuckers at the back, while Captain Craig went straight to the front and took a few massive turns driving the pace - a knight in shining armour.<br /><br />The next two hours flew by. The legs felt good. I was in control of my bodily functions, and the bikes were working perfectly. But the real start of Baviaans was about to begin. The climbing. First up was Baboons Back, a climb that sits perfectly in my Goldilocks zone. And it always helps when your partner is going through a bad patch. We made it over without too many issues, whizzed down the other side and flew through the next checkpoint. A highlight of TransBaviaans for Captain Craig is always the long river crossing that awaits just after Checkpoint 3. He's finished Baviaans 9 times, and he's ridden the river crossing 9 times without putting a foot down. So imagine my surprise when I look up and see him half submerged under his bike, absolutely soaked. Captain Craig living up to our team name of The Soggy Bottom Boys. (The Soggy Everything Boys).<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-HR_fC7GnX88/W3Vo0rqzQ3I/AAAAAAABPFY/XwTSOCS2erIlWOMdrpiTlkyoxyf_aJkigCKgBGAs/s1600/39070657_10156494673376425_1154260074114318336_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-HR_fC7GnX88/W3Vo0rqzQ3I/AAAAAAABPFY/XwTSOCS2erIlWOMdrpiTlkyoxyf_aJkigCKgBGAs/s1600/39070657_10156494673376425_1154260074114318336_o.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Captain Craig, moments after a Soggy Bottom moment!</td></tr></tbody></table>Our backup this year was once again Last Minute Charles, and on the road trip from Cape Town to Willowmore he'd asked us if we ever don't look forward to a bike ride. Particularly one like Baviaans. And my answer was yes. For me, it's usually the week before a big event that has me questioning my sanity, my love for bike riding, and my addiction for long bike rides. It's during this week that you recall the finer details of events. Not just the euphoria of finishing, or the sense of achievement after a good result. The other details - the searing pain in the legs up a steep climb. The discomfort of sitting on a saddle for nine hours. The corrugations rattling every bone in your body. The dust in your eyes. The infinite depth of the hole you're in when you're going through a bad patch. And yet, there I was, coming back for my 15th edition of this race. A cyclist himself, Last Minute Charles just smiled and nodded understandingly.<br /><br />Back on the bike, we flew over The Fangs and started my nemesis - The Mother of All Climbs. While I've had some good years, I've also had some rather dismal ones. I have punctured going up this climb. I have walked up this climb. I have vomited all over this climb. And I have bonked spectacularly several times. I was determined that this year would be a good year. We both felt rather fresh. We were riding quite smoothly, and I thought we were climbing quite well. Until, for the second time that day, the leading ladies came flying past us looking fresher and smoother. We'd like to say that we were actively managing the gap between us, but the truth is that Sarah and Theresa dropped us like a sack of potatoes. Again.<br /><blockquote align="center" class="embedly-card" data-card-controls="0" data-card-key="f1631a41cb254ca5b035dc5747a5bd75"><h4><a href="https://www.relive.cc/view/1765460290?r=embed-site">Relive 'My 15th Trans Baviaans'</a></h4></blockquote><script async="" charset="UTF-8" src="//cdn.embedly.com/widgets/platform.js"></script> Undeterred, we made the checkpoint in good spirits (I'm always in good spirits if I can make Bergplaas without needing to vomit) and quickly went about our business. Lights, snacks, juice, and in Captain Craig's case, some new dry kit. As we hit the start of the downhill, we encountered our first real snag of the day. My light came loose as we went over a small bump and went flying into the bushes at the side of the road. A couple of hundred metres further and it would have gone flying down the side of a mountain - never to be seen again. A quick stop, a frantic search under the bushes, some running repairs and we were back on the go, continuing our descent, both literally and figuratively.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5lkaEDOwvIU/W3VpmKWaT6I/AAAAAAABPFw/RRGuiCO06hAUQvby91fV0pU8D4JAxPB4ACKgBGAs/s1600/20180811_202533.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="540" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5lkaEDOwvIU/W3VpmKWaT6I/AAAAAAABPFw/RRGuiCO06hAUQvby91fV0pU8D4JAxPB4ACKgBGAs/s1600/20180811_202533.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My son gave me a plaster before the race, and specifically chose the one with snails on. What's he trying to say?</td></tr></tbody></table>My first bad patch started as we finished the descent, and like a limpet, I spent the next 10 minutes glued to Captain Craig's wheel, doing everything I could to find some energy and recover. And like a trooper, Captain Craig just sat on the front setting a solid steady pace. Just as my legs were coming back, Captain Craig's legs started to fade, and it was my turn set the pace while he frantically searched for some legs. We rolled into the next checkpoint a little battered and beaten, but aware that we had just one climb ahead of us. The NeverEnder.<br /><br />Last Minute Charles was waiting for us at the checkpoint. And he had pancakes. I grabbed one, and with the grace of a diesel mechanic doing keyhole surgery, I stuffed that pancake into my face. This was going to get me over The NeverEnder! We filled bottles, got some lube and we were on the go again, only to be passed by the leading ladies. AGAIN. And again, I could say that we managed the gap, but by this time it would be an absolute lie. We had nothing. It was possibly this situation that triggered a series of events would have me questioning why it is I ride this race. Again.<br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7bcwBrnufrY/W3Vo72ZgLjI/AAAAAAABPFc/SZO_n6NXB748BpqPIJFmjFm2rTr0aXwLgCKgBGAs/s1600/IMG-20180811-WA0012.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7bcwBrnufrY/W3Vo72ZgLjI/AAAAAAABPFc/SZO_n6NXB748BpqPIJFmjFm2rTr0aXwLgCKgBGAs/s1600/IMG-20180811-WA0012.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One last hill to go.</td></tr></tbody></table>As the ladies disappeared off into the distance, Captain Craig offered me a pancake. He'd taken two from Last Minute Charles, and could probably read my mind at that point. So I took it. And devoured it. But the thing is, I'm not a big eater when cycling, and here I was stuffing two pancakes into my belly. All went well as we climbed The NeverEnder. It wasn't easy, but we were making decent progress, despite the fact that I was starting to re-taste that second pancake more and more. But I'd done everything right up until then - I was still convinced that I would overcome this minor hurdle. How wrong I was. As we hit the top of the climb I started to think about a strategic vomit. A preemptive purge before things got any worse. And, as if by command, the floodgates opened.<br /><br />There are two types of cyclists. Those that can do a <a href="https://www.ilovebicycling.com/how-to-properly-blow-a-snot-rocket/">snot rocket</a> while riding and those that can't. I'd like to add a new category. The select few that can do a vomit comet while remaining on the bike. While I'm no expert in this, and I may have got a few stray splashes on my leg, I feel that my new found skill will certainly come in handy in future TransBaviaans events.<br /><br />With my stomach now empty, my legs started to fade too, and my next challenge was to get the timing right as to when to take an energy gel. Take it too early, and it was going to come flying straight out again. Take it too late, and the full bonk would have arrived and my legs would have fallen off completely. I might have waited a little longer than absolutely necessary, but I wasn't in the mood for wasting a gel.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--SGWUBF9he8/W3VpBApA6BI/AAAAAAABPFg/y8PwQenJjD0G0HxlfJmZHCEAhDzB8sKogCKgBGAs/s1600/IMG-20180811-WA0009.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--SGWUBF9he8/W3VpBApA6BI/AAAAAAABPFg/y8PwQenJjD0G0HxlfJmZHCEAhDzB8sKogCKgBGAs/s1600/IMG-20180811-WA0009.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"HMMMMPH HMMMMMMMMMPH&nbsp;<span style="font-size: 12.8px;">HMMMMPH</span><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">"</span></td></tr></tbody></table>We had planned a quick stop at the final checkpoint - quickly grab something to eat, turn on the lights, and speed off to Jeffrey's Bay. But, as is usually the case, our ability to stick to our plans let us down. While Captain Craig put on his quick attaching light, I was going to grab half a jaffle (you haven't lived until you've had a Checkpoint 7 jaffle!). I still had a bit of negotiating to do with the stomach demons, but the jaffle was going down a treat. I half expected to have to stuff my face and get out of there, but Captain Craig's light was taking a little longer than expected. So I had another half of a jaffle. And still Captain Craig struggled, grunting commands through the jaffle dangling from his mouth. I now know after the fact that<br /><blockquote class="tr_bq">"HMMMMPH HMMMMMMMMMPH HMMMMPH"</blockquote>means<br /><blockquote class="tr_bq">"I need someone to shine a light on my bars so that I can get this bloody light attached".</blockquote>After several teams had arrived and departed through the checkpoint (missing out on jaffles), we finally got going again, in our usual formation, Captain Craig on the front.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-YYEiU8rdMVU/W3VpFZIvpSI/AAAAAAABPFk/LAQJDPB6xsMJnZxBDgSSBD9abMmeq6TjQCKgBGAs/s1600/IMG-20180811-WA0007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-YYEiU8rdMVU/W3VpFZIvpSI/AAAAAAABPFk/LAQJDPB6xsMJnZxBDgSSBD9abMmeq6TjQCKgBGAs/s1600/IMG-20180811-WA0007.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Number 10 and 15 respectively</td></tr></tbody></table>All of a sudden I was seeing lights! Aliens?! Angels?! The end of the universe?! My porridge brain slowly tried to make sense of the bright light shining in my face as I did my best to not fall off my bike. I eventually figured out that I wasn't being abducted, but it was, in fact, Captain Craig's light that was now shining directly in my face! As I rode behind him. Captain Craig stopped and fixed his light, while I tried desperately to regain some sort of night vision. Some cursing and swearing later and we were on our way again, the lights of Jeffrey's Bay beckoning. And then we stopped again. For Captain Craig's light. And then we were going again. And then we stopped again. For Captain Craig's light, And finally, we were going again.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-t6xLOcyK_pg/W3VpOZPGlMI/AAAAAAABPFo/uSltnJJOLvUa9n9d16lwj1UdywhqW9m_gCKgBGAs/s1600/IMG-20180811-WA0008.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-t6xLOcyK_pg/W3VpOZPGlMI/AAAAAAABPFo/uSltnJJOLvUa9n9d16lwj1UdywhqW9m_gCKgBGAs/s1600/IMG-20180811-WA0008.jpg" width="540" /></a></div><br /><br />The last obstacle between us and beer on the finish line was the dreaded railway line. In my many years of cycling, every time there is a railway line involved, bad memories are usually made. Cape Epic 2010 Stage 1. Every 36One. Lost bottles and punctures outside Robertson at the Double Century. Every Cape Epic that finished over the Gantouws Pass. And well entrenched on that list is TransBaviaans. By the time we hit the railway line, my sense of humour has completely failed and I'm seriously considering another sport or hobby. Stand up paddle boarding. Birdwatching. Or freestyle crocheting. But Captain Craig is always solid on this section, convinced we can still catch the leaders if we ride fast enough, and while we missed the leaders by about an hour and a half, we did manage to catch one team that looked to be having a far worse day than us.<br /><br /><blockquote align="center" class="twitter-tweet" data-lang="en"><div dir="ltr" lang="en">15 time finishers <a href="https://twitter.com/velotales?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">@velotales</a> &amp; Berend Maarsingh receiving a commemorative shield and a personalised <a href="https://twitter.com/ciovitacycling?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">@ciovitacycling</a> soft shell jacket. <a href="https://t.co/2e7YIFZG3I">pic.twitter.com/2e7YIFZG3I</a></div>— EcoBound (@EcoBoundMTB) <a href="https://twitter.com/EcoBoundMTB/status/1028557467553280000?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">August 12, 2018</a></blockquote><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="https://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script> <br />We crossed the line to the welcoming sight of Last Minute Charles, warm clothes, a Darling Brew, and Spur burgers. Captain Craig had finished his 10th Baviaans, I had done my 15th, with The Soggy Bottom Boys finishing in 9h20 in 19th place. #Top20IsTheNewTop10. Will we be back? Most definitely!<br /><br /></div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/VeloTales/~4/mHnFwuIt5pc" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Velouriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06667777448042670759noreply@blogger.com0http://www.velotales.com/2018/08/transbaviaans-2018.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5990819476840975001.post-78459403947138836922018-07-31T12:17:00.000+02:002018-07-31T13:53:44.884+02:00Around the Pot 2018<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">It's not often that a race comes along that has the ability to fill one with such emotion. Not the "Why-did-I-enter-this-race-I'm-going-to-die" sort of emotion - we'll get to that later - the "I-don't-want-to-tell-anyone-about-this-event-because-it's-amazing" selfishness that filled us after last year's race. This is a bike riding event run by people who get bike riding. Things just work. Everyone is a rock star. And there is a burger and beer at the finish.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ybL0g2XkCiY/W2AwoK8N5qI/AAAAAAABOqE/yQjRaz9EMzQZ_08Wr-cl_B9nhmaf20ElACKgBGAs/s1600/37677736_2088142438073239_6852349737828352_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="731" data-original-width="1600" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ybL0g2XkCiY/W2AwoK8N5qI/AAAAAAABOqE/yQjRaz9EMzQZ_08Wr-cl_B9nhmaf20ElACKgBGAs/s1600/37677736_2088142438073239_6852349737828352_o.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dane the Limpet</td></tr></tbody></table>The selfishness comes in that with the inevitable growth of an event, the very things that make an event unique are lost as the event scales. So I tried not to tell anyone about <a href="https://www.petrichoradventures.co.za/atp">The Around The Pot</a> 100 Miler. But someone spoke, breaking the secret pact we'd all sworn to keep and come race day this year, registration was mass of race snakes, weekend warriors, endurance addicts and sufferfest seekers. And their families. And their friends.<br /><br />My first concern was that there were real bike racers in attendance this year, and it wouldn't be a procession to the podium like the previous year. And then I worried about the things that brought us back. Were there going to be roosterkoek&nbsp;at the halfway point? And choc chip cookies at the water points? And a cool vibe at the finish? We'd find out in the 160kms that lay before us.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-spICYVdWEBE/W2AwoD0a-TI/AAAAAAABOqE/3XMH7fnZzT0iNgl1lNnkhoRE16hqflJaQCKgBGAs/s1600/37600661_2088152748072208_2245820192712032256_o%2B%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="924" data-original-width="1386" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-spICYVdWEBE/W2AwoD0a-TI/AAAAAAABOqE/3XMH7fnZzT0iNgl1lNnkhoRE16hqflJaQCKgBGAs/s1600/37600661_2088152748072208_2245820192712032256_o%2B%25281%2529.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dane the Yo-Yo</td></tr></tbody></table>As usual, Captain Craig and I rolled up to the start line minutes before the gun went. Not because we were trying to be cool and act all pro-like, but because our time management skills tend to be a little haphazard. We needn't have worried, as the motor-paced session through the neutral zone from the previous year had been replaced with a looking-for-parking cruise down the N2. Slow enough to not warm up, and fast enough for 400 mountain bikers to think they were World Tour roadies riding in a peloton, but with the bike and bunch skills of the Open seeded group at a local PPA race.<br /><br />Thankfully, it wasn't long before we hit the dirt, and all hell exploded.&nbsp;<a href="http://cyclisturbandictionary.blogspot.com/2013/03/schleckchute.html">SchleckChute</a>'s being deployed all over the place and before long the front group consisted of just a handful of lean, mean, muscled athletes. And me. I haven't felt so out of place in a long while. Not because I wasn't lean, mean or muscled, but because I was hanging onto wheels like my life depended on it, gasping through my gaping mouth, snot&nbsp;dripping off my face, while it looked like everyone else was still nose breathing. Now I knew exactly what Hector <a href="http://www.velotales.com/2017/08/trans-baviaans-2017.html">felt like last year</a>.<br /><br />As I dangled off the back, steam coming out of my ears, Captain Craig had an important job to fulfil. No sitting on the front and pulling everyone along this year. He was on rescue duty - every time the bunch accelerated over a climb, I'd slip off the back, and Captain Craig would have to slowly but surely guide me back on. Only for it to happen again. And again.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OddXgrCjGOM/W2AwoBy--VI/AAAAAAABOqE/j7JdHzpVGvELXq7bXq6Y2EHBMp9UGbm3QCKgBGAs/s1600/37578265_2088160121404804_6906074933978202112_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="924" data-original-width="1386" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OddXgrCjGOM/W2AwoBy--VI/AAAAAAABOqE/j7JdHzpVGvELXq7bXq6Y2EHBMp9UGbm3QCKgBGAs/s1600/37578265_2088160121404804_6906074933978202112_o.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Captain Craig on rescue duty</td></tr></tbody></table>Things eventually settled down when a select bunch rode off the front, and I was finally able to follow the wheels, rather than chase them. I was that guy. The wheelsucker. The limpet. The bike rider who sits in the slip, avoids the front at all costs and offers no help. Not because I didn't want to help. I just couldn't.<br /><br />I'd like to say that I found a set of legs and that I started to come right and ride a little better, but there was very little change in my riding. Instead, it seemed like the others were starting to fade. Starting to enter my world. Little signs of weakness here and there - a gap opening over the top of a climb, one partner giving the other a gentle push back onto the bunch. Even Captain Craig would disappear for a secret gel at the back of the bunch every now and then. It was these little signs that gave me hope and got me to hang on a little longer. Knowing those around you are suffering too almost makes the suffering bearable.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-a0pjDtF0QVI/W2AwoKSXpcI/AAAAAAABOqE/ec6uopBqq38Ri4-P7gzrm-PEphr9YMa5QCKgBGAs/s1600/rxScywhdxEYdifosg6VfIx0JaLjz9N8OFb1_7rVH1E0-2048x1536.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-a0pjDtF0QVI/W2AwoKSXpcI/AAAAAAABOqE/ec6uopBqq38Ri4-P7gzrm-PEphr9YMa5QCKgBGAs/s1600/rxScywhdxEYdifosg6VfIx0JaLjz9N8OFb1_7rVH1E0-2048x1536.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The pont</td></tr></tbody></table>With almost a hundred kilometres done we got to the part of this race that makes it so unique. The checkpoint at the Malgas Pont. And this is where prior knowledge comes in handy. The clock stops as you enter the checkpoint, and starts once again once you've crossed the river and checked back in. And since it didn't look like we were going to be able to ride away from the other teams in the group, we were going to have to be sneaky in order to gain time. So we zipped into the checkpoint before the other teams, gaining a handful of seconds. While everyone else was enjoying the ceasefire in hostilities as they filled their water bottles and their bellies, waiting for the pont, Captain Craig and I were hatching a master plan. After crossing the river, we'd hang near the back and give the bunch a handful of seconds headstart. We reckoned 30 seconds would be good enough to defend, and easy enough to close once the race was on again. Except we made one little mistake.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7-BTJzQ9pj8/W2AwoFKj_5I/AAAAAAABOqE/Wkho6_V1jBALLs_DL31J0fXzRQc_NK4WwCKgBGAs/s1600/s9EgItLUCzNI8GpkDuTZylVMy6psaWMPqdyjvc7_QgM-2048x1536.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7-BTJzQ9pj8/W2AwoFKj_5I/AAAAAAABOqE/Wkho6_V1jBALLs_DL31J0fXzRQc_NK4WwCKgBGAs/s1600/s9EgItLUCzNI8GpkDuTZylVMy6psaWMPqdyjvc7_QgM-2048x1536.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Smiling, moments before telling The Thighs of Thunder our plan</td></tr></tbody></table>We happened to share our plan with Mike Posthumus - the original Thighs of Thunder, Destroyer of Drivetrains and Crusher of Souls. An ally like that would make our plan almost foolproof. Except we messed up. We changed the plan to accommodate Monster Mike and his ample thighs, and before we knew it, we were giving the&nbsp;bunch 2 minutes and committing ourselves to "just 30 minutes of effort, through and off". And if there is one thing that is guaranteed to make me pop, it's riding through and off.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-t5jIeGNpPrY/W2AzUB3WI_I/AAAAAAABOq0/s_od28mNfKAXkdTP64EZTyY_rbFF-Mb6ACKgBGAs/s1600/37659049_2089242294629920_4399520045663780864_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="984" data-original-width="1476" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-t5jIeGNpPrY/W2AzUB3WI_I/AAAAAAABOq0/s_od28mNfKAXkdTP64EZTyY_rbFF-Mb6ACKgBGAs/s1600/37659049_2089242294629920_4399520045663780864_o.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mike "Thighs of Thunder" Posthumus</td></tr></tbody></table>Everything went well for about 15 minutes, as five lonely riders attempted to claw their way back to the bunch that was no longer visible up the road. We each took our turn for the greater good, driving the pace on, urging the legs for more. In my head, warning lights were flashing, sirens were blaring. Meltdown was imminent. There was about to be a reactor breach, followed by a massive explosion. I took one last look at the Thighs of Thunder before finally deploying my SchleckChute in an attempt to minimise the devastation and destruction. And within seconds, Captain Craig had done the same as he embraced his new responsibilities of looking after me. Whether he could have hung onto the Destroyer of Drivetrains' wheel is a debate for another time, but it felt good knowing that I had company.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-alU5ai1E180/W2AwoMn47YI/AAAAAAABOqE/LPaLAxI_tagTBozX6eyW7BP_S5RzvpPCwCKgBGAs/s1600/37746619_2089242364629913_8061441254229016576_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="792" data-original-width="1476" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-alU5ai1E180/W2AwoMn47YI/AAAAAAABOqE/LPaLAxI_tagTBozX6eyW7BP_S5RzvpPCwCKgBGAs/s1600/37746619_2089242364629913_8061441254229016576_o.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My Not-So-Happy place</td></tr></tbody></table><br />As we backed off, my legs came back to me, and rather surprisingly I found myself repaying Captain Craig's earlier efforts in looking after me. The <a href="http://capecycletours.com/">Cape Cycling Tours</a> Train was back, and we started to make good progress, occasionally picking up a rider or two from the bunch that we'd long since given up on, but never caught sight of any of the other teams that we were racing.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nCXD3WntZwo/W2AwoDuQ0ZI/AAAAAAABOqE/AHWaA9alRi8w34rZsBUDSqxg7ibpwBZ6ACKgBGAs/s1600/37770433_2089243197963163_6563897006924759040_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="984" data-original-width="1476" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nCXD3WntZwo/W2AwoDuQ0ZI/AAAAAAABOqE/AHWaA9alRi8w34rZsBUDSqxg7ibpwBZ6ACKgBGAs/s1600/37770433_2089243197963163_6563897006924759040_o.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">DEPLOY THE SCHLECKCHUTE!</td></tr></tbody></table>With the finish line looming, I burnt my final match and any hope of salvaging our sneaky plan seemed to vanish completely. I hastily gulped down a gel, hoping for one final miracle before we crossed the line. And it happened! Just as my legs were coming back, we caught sight of the Pure Savage guys ahead of us. Perhaps there was something to race for after all. Something to make the suffering and pain all worth it. With one final push, we drove towards the line, embracing the burn in our legs, hoping beyond all hope that we had done enough.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jtF-Fu86LN8/W2AyLOceO7I/AAAAAAABOqg/JIUYsO6PMQs14jejidpPKrVxOgMJ3BtfACKgBGAs/s1600/20180721_135250.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jtF-Fu86LN8/W2AyLOceO7I/AAAAAAABOqg/JIUYsO6PMQs14jejidpPKrVxOgMJ3BtfACKgBGAs/s1600/20180721_135250.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yoki the Yeti, looking a little worse for wear. Just like me.</td></tr></tbody></table>We crossed the line to little fanfare - we were forth on the road, but the time gaps still needed to be calculated. And eventually we got the word - we hadn't made it onto the podium. The fleeting hope we had was quickly replaced with disappointment, and annoyance as our plan had been solid, we'd just messed up the execution of it.<br /><br /><blockquote align="center" class="twitter-tweet" data-lang="en"><div dir="ltr" lang="en">My thing for ladies cycling kit continues. Rode <a href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/AroundThePot?src=hash&amp;ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">#AroundThePot</a> in my wife's <a href="https://twitter.com/ciovitacycling?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">@ciovitacycling</a> <a href="https://twitter.com/capecycletours?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">@capecycletours</a> top. I'm a little concerned that it fitted so well. 😱 <a href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/DoingScienceSoYouDontHaveTo?src=hash&amp;ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">#DoingScienceSoYouDontHaveTo</a> <a href="https://t.co/zcaAAgi2Qw">pic.twitter.com/zcaAAgi2Qw</a></div>— Dane Walsh (@velotales) <a href="https://twitter.com/velotales/status/1020642085219831809?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">July 21, 2018</a></blockquote><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="https://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script> When the final results were published the next day we noticed an anomaly. We weren't on the results. Anywhere (given that I'd ridden in my wife's cycling top by mistake, I even checked the mixed team results). A couple of emails back and forth between the organisers and the timekeepers and they eventually found us - in third place in the men's team competition. A bittersweet reward for a poorly executed masterful plan.<br /><br /></div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/VeloTales/~4/51RLb1QeOpo" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Velouriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06667777448042670759noreply@blogger.com0Swellendam, 6740, South Africa-34.0257083 20.43812539999999-34.2362688 20.115401899999991 -33.8151478 20.760848899999989http://www.velotales.com/2018/07/around-pot-2018.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5990819476840975001.post-50079609103394705482018-04-26T20:37:00.000+02:002018-04-26T20:37:52.698+02:00The 36One 2018<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">We've all done things that we regret. There are those things that we'll regret to the day we die. Things like backing Sony's Betamax in the video recording format wars,&nbsp;or insisting that&nbsp;27.5 inch wheels were the future of mountain biking, or getting that tattoo of a dolphin on one's shoulder after a late night out. And then there are things that cause short-term&nbsp;regret. Like having garlic mushrooms for breakfast, home&nbsp;dyeing your hair, or trying to grow a moustache for Movember. And somewhere in between those two extremes lies the regret I suffer from every year when I enter The 36One Challenge.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-e5ifhDFgTSM/WuHhrANS6ZI/AAAAAAABIuo/kheqaLNws6gjgOU6gdX7Lypw8clMshEFwCKgBGAs/s1600/31218597_1370824369728172_8512367886361165824_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-e5ifhDFgTSM/WuHhrANS6ZI/AAAAAAABIuo/kheqaLNws6gjgOU6gdX7Lypw8clMshEFwCKgBGAs/s1600/31218597_1370824369728172_8512367886361165824_o.jpg" width="540" /></a></div>The regret isn't immediate. It builds slowly in the months preceding the event, occasionally&nbsp;punctuated by waking up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat from a particularly bad flashback. As the race nears, so the regret increases - and I get angry at my past self for being so brave and confident and naive and stupid. And it's not like this is the first time my past self has&nbsp;thrown me into this situation - this was the fifth consecutive&nbsp;year that current me has had to deal with the mess past me has created. I'm beginning to think that past Dane is quite a vindictive guy.<br /><blockquote align="center" class="twitter-tweet" data-lang="en"><div dir="ltr" lang="en">This is definitely the last <a href="https://twitter.com/The36ONE?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">@The36ONE</a> that <a href="https://twitter.com/captaincraigSA?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">@captaincraigSA</a> &amp; I are doing. This time we're serious! <a href="https://t.co/7xCgMOzUoI">https://t.co/7xCgMOzUoI</a></div>— Dane Walsh (@velotales) <a href="https://twitter.com/velotales/status/984520992130289672?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">April 12, 2018</a></blockquote><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="https://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script> <br />Captain Craig and I have had several long and in-depth&nbsp;conversations about this, trying to understand why we keep coming back to this race. Superficially, we'll be the first to admit that the food is pretty good. Ostrich sosaties, date balls and pancakes are enough to win over most people, but we don't just do The 36One for the food. Getting a good result could also be part of the problem, but that's not our motivation for coming back year after year. Often while riding, we just want to get to the finish, regardless of the result. So it's not that.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-d6J9ozrb7Nc/WuHjvlFMkUI/AAAAAAABIvg/1ghGph4b9q8c2dG2XIxrDGYkZ67pXuzXACKgBGAs/s1600/31096670_1371569896320286_3835907958609281024_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="912" data-original-width="1368" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-d6J9ozrb7Nc/WuHjvlFMkUI/AAAAAAABIvg/1ghGph4b9q8c2dG2XIxrDGYkZ67pXuzXACKgBGAs/s1600/31096670_1371569896320286_3835907958609281024_o.jpg" width="540" /></a></div><br /><br />We do feel honour bound - we have our cycling rules that we try to live and ride by (you should see the size of the rulebook for our <a href="http://www.velotales.com/2018/03/the-bigdayout-2018.html">BigDayOut</a>). And one of those rules is that we believe a title should always be defended. It's a noble, honourable rule, and it shows that a victory wasn't a one-hit wonder. It also gives challengers the opportunity to race against the current title holders and test their mettle.&nbsp; But that's not the reason either.<br /><blockquote align="center" class="twitter-tweet" data-lang="en"><div dir="ltr" lang="en">We're honor-bound. <a href="https://twitter.com/captaincraigSA?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">@captaincraigSA</a> and I believe that one should always defend one's title. Which in this case makes winning <a href="https://twitter.com/The36ONE?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">@The36ONE</a> such a bittersweet victory! 😱 <a href="https://t.co/x1JgrX1Wac">https://t.co/x1JgrX1Wac</a></div>— Dane Walsh (@velotales) <a href="https://twitter.com/velotales/status/984710222890618880?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">April 13, 2018</a></blockquote><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="https://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script> <br />I think we're attracted to this race because it just ticks so many of our boxes. It's long. Really really long. It's super tough - Klein Karoo tough! And it's so well run. Dryland really gets what mountain biking is all about. In the 5 years that we've been doing The 36One, it's grown from an event with a budget gazebo and almost as many riders as there were marshals to the defacto test of endurance mountain biking in this country with start chutes and neutral zones and food stalls and all the other things you'd expect from races that barely last 3 hours.<br /><br />As The Tortured Souls stood on the start line, the months and months of regret started weighing on our shoulders. What were we once again doing here? Why were we willingly going to put ourselves through the sixteen plus hours of suffering that lay ahead of us? What adversities would we face this time around (and when I say that, I'm generally referring to the creative and innovative ways Captain Craig comes up with to add complexity to any ride that we do)? Perhaps this explained why I felt the uncontrollable desire to wet myself, despite going to the toilet every five minutes.<br /><blockquote align="center" class="twitter-tweet" data-lang="en"><div dir="ltr" lang="en">The Tortured Souls are always up for a challenge, but we've only won 3 in a row. Our first attempt at this crazy crazy race was a disaster and we came in second 😜</div>— Dane Walsh (@velotales) <a href="https://twitter.com/velotales/status/985978330104123394?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">April 16, 2018</a></blockquote><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="https://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script> <br />While we reflected on all the life decisions we'd made to get us to this point, we couldn't help but wonder about the future that lay ahead of us. A future where The 36One was no longer part of our race calendar. Captain Craig and I had signed a blood pact - this was our last 36One for the foreseeable future. We'd definitely be back, but we just needed a break. Time to do other events. Meet other people. See other things. With that in mind, we'd hoped that the buildup to the 2018&nbsp;36One would be perfect. Lots of training. Plenty of sleep. A robust race plan. And a relaxing drive through to Oudtshoorn on race day.<br /><br />The reality was that life happens. An outbreak of listeriosis in my household ruined my buildup to race day, although there was a brief moment where I embraced the possibility that I might die. Anything was better than the fate that awaited me in Oudtshoorn. Family obligations kept us both awake. Half of me viewed this as insomnia training for the long cold night that lay ahead. The other half of me stressed that I was going to fall asleep on the bike. And as for that leisurely drive to Oudtshoorn, we only left Somerset West at 10:30, with a looming box hand-in deadline of 4pm. The very same box deadline that we'd previously missed. Thinking back, I think that might also have been the year where Captain Craig's light didn't work, despite the repeated reassurances that they were fully charged and he'd tested them thoroughly. To counter the argument that you can't teach an old dog new tricks, Captain Craig didn't bring one light or two lights. He brought FOUR lights this year! Back to our road trip - roadworks, stop-go's, and slow cars couldn't prevent our determination to make it to Oudsthoorn on time, and we sneaked into registration with 30 minutes to spare. More importantly, we handed our boxes in with plenty of time. A whole 5 minutes!<br /><blockquote align="center" class="twitter-tweet" data-lang="en"><div dir="ltr" lang="en">That reminds me. I should probably check up on <a href="https://twitter.com/captaincraigSA?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">@captaincraigSA</a> and his light strategy for this year...</div>— Dane Walsh (@velotales) <a href="https://twitter.com/velotales/status/985979132306698240?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">April 16, 2018</a></blockquote><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="https://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script> <br />The gun went and it was quickly apparent who the contenders were going to be. Four teams gathered on the front, and for a change, The Tortured Souls were not setting the pace. We'd had discussion after discussion about how we were going to take the first half of the race easy, hide from the wind, never go into the red. And despite every urge to sit on the front, we were channelling on our inner road cyclists to stay focused and just sit on the wheels. For 45 minutes we stuck to our plan. No closing gaps, no setting the pace, no turns on the front. And then the road went up, and before we knew it we were off the front with a 20-metre gap. I looked at Captain Craig, he looked at me, and just like that the racers in us came to the fore. We were not going to give up that gap without a fight, whatever the consequences!<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7wpJ79HgDWM/WuHiLmuIIVI/AAAAAAABIu0/2kDzQznZa9MbtnuBqWXc-g7L1oITfgZtQCKgBGAs/s1600/30713377_1369782123165730_869278595908894720_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7wpJ79HgDWM/WuHiLmuIIVI/AAAAAAABIu0/2kDzQznZa9MbtnuBqWXc-g7L1oITfgZtQCKgBGAs/s1600/30713377_1369782123165730_869278595908894720_o.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A working light!</td></tr></tbody></table>At waterpoint 1 we had 4 minutes, and at checkpoint 1 we had a 10-minute lead. We'd also picked up a stray. A solo rider who we thought was along for a free ride. And even worse, a Pure Savage rider. At first, Waldo lurked at the back, being polite and letting us set the pace, occasionally coming through to take a quick turn on the front. But I started to notice something - he was only coming through when the road tilted slightly up. Nothing steep - just on the false flats where the gradient was between 1 and 2 percent. More worryingly, when he did take a turn on the front he'd slowly and methodically make me want to murder him. Always riding just a tad too hard for my liking.<br /><blockquote align="center" class="twitter-tweet" data-lang="en"><div dir="ltr" lang="en">While the first men's team of <a href="https://twitter.com/velotales?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">@velotales</a> &amp; <a href="https://twitter.com/captaincraigSA?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">@captaincraigSA</a> have made up good ground, eating into the 10min deficit to the solo riders who started ahead of them the 2nd &amp; 3rd solo women came through. They are Brigitta Joubert &amp; Janine Stewart. They're 10 minutes behind <a href="https://twitter.com/jeanniebom?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">@jeanniebom</a> <a href="https://t.co/wV3GK7YyZn">pic.twitter.com/wV3GK7YyZn</a></div>— 36ONE MTB Challenge (@The36ONE) <a href="https://twitter.com/The36ONE/status/987401989494591489?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">April 20, 2018</a></blockquote><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="https://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script> <br />After the amazing ride&nbsp;that I'd had last year where I felt virtually indestructible - much to Captain Craig's dismay, it was quite a new experience having to deal the emotions and thoughts of going through a bad patch. And I had many, many bad patches. Occasionally I'd synchronise a bad patch with Captain Craig's bad patch, and occasionally I'd&nbsp;synchronise a bad patch with a false flat and Waldo's thighs of doom.<br /><br />We hit the halfway mark in good time and made quick work of getting ready for the 180 kilometres that lay ahead. Read that again. We were halfway and STILL had 180 kilometres ahead of us. Captain Craig fiddled with his lights - some intricate plan about having the right light on the bike for the descent of Rooiberg, still a distant 80 kilometres away. I spent my time putting on some warm clothing - some gloves, some arm warmers, and a windjammer. In an attempt to look all matchy matchy (if we can't ride fast, we can at least look like we're fast), I'd borrowed a windjammer from Captain Craig's wife. I thought a windjammer was a windjammer was a windjammer, but over the course of the next 6 hours, I learnt a lot about the design and fit of a woman's windjammer. For starters, the bottom of my belly was always sticking out, and no amount of pulling and tugging could convince the windjammer to remain in place. Secondly, there seemed to an excess of material in the chest area, and on the odd occasion that I went fast, the windjammer&nbsp;would turn into a drag chute, billowing and flapping in the breeze, and more importantly, slowing me down unnecessarily. It wasn't all bad though. We did look fast, and it did keep me warm, and without trying to sound all weird, it smelt rather nice. Unlike the rest of me. Despite putting on deodorant that promised 48hr protection, 8hrs of wallowing in my own grime and sweat was enough to defeat the scientists responsible for my deodorant's "unique formulation".<br /><blockquote align="center" class="twitter-tweet" data-lang="en"><div dir="ltr" lang="en">The leading team of <a href="https://twitter.com/captaincraigSA?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">@captaincraigSA</a> &amp; <a href="https://twitter.com/velotales?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">@velotales</a> are being kept company by <a href="https://twitter.com/TeamPureSavage?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">@TeamPureSavage</a>'s Waldo Zevenster. They're now at Check Point 2. <a href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/The36ONE?src=hash&amp;ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">#The36ONE</a> <a href="https://t.co/ZzneXICGrw">pic.twitter.com/ZzneXICGrw</a></div>— 36ONE MTB Challenge (@The36ONE) <a href="https://twitter.com/The36ONE/status/987473252388917249?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">April 20, 2018</a></blockquote><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="https://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script> <br />Back out on the road, I suffered an almost immediate bad patch. I couldn't blame Waldo this time - we were on a steep climb and my legs were uncooperative. To make matters worse, we'd gone from being the guys who were hunting down the lights up ahead, to being the riders that the lights behind were hunting down. With over 200 kilometres in the legs, these moves play out in slow motion, often taking hours for the pass to happen. This was no different. Sixty kilometres and 3 hours later, from first sighting to passing, a group of riders eventually caught us. For a minute, Waldo felt obliged to stick with us, but we could tell that he wanted to return to his own kind - the solo racers. And as he disappeared up the road, Captain Craig and I were finally alone once again, riding our own pace, racing our own race.<br /><br />We weren't super racey, but we still made good progress, and before long we crested the dreaded Rooiberg climb, feeling somewhat disappointed that it wasn't as difficult as we'd remembered. We'd just started the descent of Rooiberg when Captain Craig's lights played their final card and promptly died. But Captain Craig was prepared for this and had a spare light! A minute or two later we were on the go again, ready for the descent. Just as I was about to get into my groove, Captain Craig stopped again. Literally fifty metres on from the last stop. He'd dropped his chain. Not a dropped-his-chain-and-was-able-to-fix-it-in-a-flash kind of dropped chain, but rather a dropped-his-chain-and-got-it-stuck-between-his-pedal-and-chain-blade kind of dropped. I was prepared to make myself comfortable while he broke the chain, got it unstuck, and then rejoined the chain, but thankfully, after some careful analysis, a skillfully placed tug on the chain was all that was required to sort it out. No more than two or three minutes lost.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fJOkiV8jklI/WuHiecED0fI/AAAAAAABIu8/qlNmMCDG1k890gSMGKW9lij5NxCPBq0-gCKgBGAs/s1600/31206569_1371608142983128_5284340637863247872_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="828" data-original-width="1228" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fJOkiV8jklI/WuHiecED0fI/AAAAAAABIu8/qlNmMCDG1k890gSMGKW9lij5NxCPBq0-gCKgBGAs/s1600/31206569_1371608142983128_5284340637863247872_o.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The awesome threesome</td></tr></tbody></table>We got to the bottom of the descent and began the arduous task of ticking off the miles to Calitzdorp. For the second year running, I popped spectacularly on this stretch and just as the gels and jelly babies I'd crammed down my throat were kicking in, Captain Craig popped too. I still held out hope that we might be able to hold onto our first place, but we had to be a little strategic going forward. No long stops. No pancakes. No tea. No chatting. And in probably the most coordinated we've ever been, we flew through the checkpoint at Calitzdorp in record time. We dumped our lights, had some snacks, serviced a free body&nbsp;and hit the road. Out of sight - out of mind.<br /><br />The last leg of The 36One is a true test of character. It's lumpy and hot and never-ending and it takes its toll on both the mind and body. During another of my frequent bad patches, I commented on how the particular hill was so bad, to which Captain Craig, a man of few words on the bike, replied:<br /><br /><blockquote class="tr_bq" style="text-align: center;">"<b>It's all bad. This bit is just terrible</b>"</blockquote>That was it. I'd found my&nbsp;angle for this blog post. As I started to construct things in my head we caught a glimpse of two riders closing in on us rapidly, and my mood dropped. I was on my limit - there was no way I could mount a counter-attack should the team behind us catch us. But we still held out a slight hope that if we could get over the hill, down the other side, speedily refuel at the water point and stay out of sight, we might be able to hang on to first place.<br /><blockquote align="center" class="twitter-tweet" data-conversation="none" data-lang="en"><div dir="ltr" lang="en">One does not ride <a href="https://twitter.com/The36ONE?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">@The36ONE</a> socially. One might ride fast, or one might ride slowly, but one thing is for sure - one will suffer!</div>— Dane Walsh (@velotales) <a href="https://twitter.com/velotales/status/987787498251341825?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">April 21, 2018</a></blockquote><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="https://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script> <br />But that hope was shattered as while I was pouring cup after cup of ice cold coke (that's another thing - why is there ice in the coke at 4am when the temperature is in single digits?) down my throat one of the riders chasing us pulled into the water point. And then it was restored when, after allowing the icecream headache to subside, I could process what had happened. We'd seen two riders. One of them had just caught us. He was a solo rider (it just happened to be Martin Dreyer, which explained a few things too). The other rider was a local commuter. With a bag on his back and a bike that weighed a tonne and was still riding faster than we were. The commuter was on his way to work and was not part of the race. We still held out hope!<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-nS1Li5N2CJA/WuHjIjCXKBI/AAAAAAABIvQ/KVBkzfTl6DwCPHfEJLTdUL7YZPWx7MZAACKgBGAs/s1600/31143695_1371608569649752_7291005047100407808_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="912" data-original-width="1368" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-nS1Li5N2CJA/WuHjIjCXKBI/AAAAAAABIvQ/KVBkzfTl6DwCPHfEJLTdUL7YZPWx7MZAACKgBGAs/s1600/31143695_1371608569649752_7291005047100407808_o.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One last time</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Our twosome was once again a threesome, and once again the new guy was hurting us - even if he had no intention of doing so. Our little posse made good progress, and before long pulled into the final water point. It was suddenly Martin's turn to stress - two solo riders were rapidly approaching and he asked if we wouldn't mind helping him defend his overall placing. With twenty kilometres of the 2018&nbsp;36One left, and retirement from this event beckoning, I thought we could lend Martin a hand. For the first time in hours we were actually racing someone again, AND, I had the legs to back up this desire to race. The final move of my 36One career was to guarantee Martin his place (side note - Martin asked me to slow down ;) ).<br /><blockquote align="center" class="twitter-tweet" data-lang="en"><div dir="ltr" lang="en">A successful title defense. And so begins our retirement!</div>— Dane Walsh (@velotales) <a href="https://twitter.com/velotales/status/987728153455054848?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">April 21, 2018</a></blockquote><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="https://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script> Crossing the finish line for me is always a bit of a letdown. It's the wake-up call that the bike ride is over and that it's back to reality. Despite the bad patches, the sore bums, the tired legs, riding bikes is still fun, even when it hurts and this was no different. We'd survived another 36One, while at the same time getting a good result. But just as the race has to end, so too does our participation in this event. At least for now.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FhIe_LMQHNI/WuHjXhMoSrI/AAAAAAABIvU/9w_yOPNs1wYQARFqqx3HsddJrOfB5vw2ACKgBGAs/s1600/31100413_1370893306387945_8185020116308590592_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FhIe_LMQHNI/WuHjXhMoSrI/AAAAAAABIvU/9w_yOPNs1wYQARFqqx3HsddJrOfB5vw2ACKgBGAs/s1600/31100413_1370893306387945_8185020116308590592_o.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another successful adventure with Captain Craig</td></tr></tbody></table>P.S. As I write this, entries for 2019 have opened, and the good news is that Captain Craig and I are still retired. Our resolve is strong, despite the many&nbsp;doubters out there.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-QtdgwhuTV6c/WuHkYx0ImRI/AAAAAAABIvw/Js93bCPyDT8vOxhVz_jEkgLE9eEfGaXiQCKgBGAs/s1600/Selection_245.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="408" data-original-width="381" height="400" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-QtdgwhuTV6c/WuHkYx0ImRI/AAAAAAABIvw/Js93bCPyDT8vOxhVz_jEkgLE9eEfGaXiQCKgBGAs/s400/Selection_245.png" width="372" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What does that little red button do</td></tr></tbody></table><a class="twitter-moment" href="https://twitter.com/i/moments/989514399701495810?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">36One Retirement</a> <script async="" charset="utf-8" src="https://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script> <br /><br /></div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/VeloTales/~4/OySD5W87Kdg" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Velouriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06667777448042670759noreply@blogger.com0http://www.velotales.com/2018/04/the-36one-2018.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5990819476840975001.post-43853204487441692012018-03-09T10:23:00.000+02:002018-03-09T10:23:08.355+02:00The BigDayOut 2018<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="content-box-header" style="background: rgb(204, 237, 240); border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; font-family: &quot;Open Sans&quot;, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px -15px 1em; padding: 10px 15px; word-wrap: break-word;"><h2 class="h2_entry" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-size: 1.8em; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; word-wrap: break-word;"><span class="orth" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-size: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; word-wrap: break-word;">midlife crisis</span></h2><span class="mini_h2" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-size: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; word-wrap: break-word;"><span class="span" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-size: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; word-wrap: break-word;">(</span><span class="pron type-" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-size: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; word-wrap: break-word;">m<span class="hi rend-u" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-size: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; word-wrap: break-word;">ɪ</span>dlaɪf kr<span class="hi rend-u" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-size: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; word-wrap: break-word;">aɪ</span>sɪs<span class="ptr hwd_sound type-hwd_sound" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: red; font-family: inherit; font-size: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; word-wrap: break-word;">&nbsp;<a class="hwd_sound sound audio_play_button icon-volume-up ptr" data-lang="en_GB" data-src-mp3="https://www.collinsdictionary.com/sounds/6/658/65827/65827.mp3" href="https://draft.blogger.com/null" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; font-family: icomoon; font-size: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 1; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; speak: none; transition: transform 0.2s, text-shadow 0.2s; vertical-align: middle; word-wrap: break-word;" title="Pronunciation for midlife crisis in English"></a>&nbsp;</span></span><span class="span" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-size: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; word-wrap: break-word;">)</span></span><a class="cobuild-logo res_hos" href="https://www.collinsdictionary.com/cobuild/" style="background: url(&quot;https://www.collinsdictionary.com/external/images/cobuild-logo.png?version=3.1.131&quot;) center center / contain no-repeat; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; float: right; font-family: inherit; font-size: inherit; font-weight: inherit; height: 20px; margin: 5px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration-line: none; width: 150px; word-wrap: break-word;" target="_blank" title="Powered by Cobuild"></a></div><div class="socialButtons" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; float: right; font-family: &quot;Open Sans&quot;, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px 0px 0px 10px; padding: 0px; word-wrap: break-word;"></div><div class="content definitions cobuild br" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; font-family: &quot;Open Sans&quot;, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px 0px 1em; padding: 0px; word-wrap: break-word;"><span class="form inflected_forms type-infl" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; display: block; font-family: inherit; font-size: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1.25em; word-wrap: break-word;"><span class="var" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-size: inherit; font-weight: bold; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; word-wrap: break-word;">Word forms:&nbsp;</span><span class="lbl type-gram" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-size: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; word-wrap: break-word;">plural</span><span class="orth" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-size: inherit; font-weight: bold; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; word-wrap: break-word;">&nbsp;midlife crises</span><span class="ptr hwd_sound type-hwd_sound" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-size: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; word-wrap: break-word;">&nbsp;<a class="hwd_sound sound audio_play_button icon-volume-up ptr" data-lang="en_GB" data-src-mp3="https://www.collinsdictionary.com/sounds/6/666/66614/66614.mp3" href="https://draft.blogger.com/null" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: #ec2615; cursor: pointer; font-family: icomoon; font-size: inherit; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 1; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; speak: none; transition: transform 0.2s, text-shadow 0.2s; vertical-align: middle; word-wrap: break-word;" title="Pronunciation for midlife crises in English"></a></span></span><br /><div class="hom" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-size: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px 0px 1em 1.5em; padding: 0px; word-wrap: break-word;"><span class="gramGrp" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-size: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; word-wrap: break-word;"><span class="pos" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-size: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; word-wrap: break-word;">countable noun</span><span class="lbl type-syntax" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: #666666; font-family: inherit; font-size: 0.8em; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; word-wrap: break-word;"><span class="span" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-size: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; word-wrap: break-word;">&nbsp;[</span>usually singular<span class="span" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-size: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; word-wrap: break-word;">]</span></span></span><br /><div class="sense" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-size: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0.5em 0px; padding: 0px; word-wrap: break-word;"><div class="def" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-size: 1.25em; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 1.5em; margin: 0px 0px 0.5em; padding: 0px; word-wrap: break-word;"><span style="background-color: white;">a&nbsp;</span><a class="ref type-def" href="https://www.collinsdictionary.com/dictionary/english/crisis" style="background-color: white; border-bottom-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.6); border-bottom-style: dashed; border-image: initial; border-left-color: initial; border-left-style: initial; border-right-color: initial; border-right-style: initial; border-top-color: initial; border-top-style: initial; border-width: 0px 0px 1px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration-line: none; word-wrap: break-word;" title="Definition of crisis">crisis</a><span style="background-color: white;">&nbsp;that&nbsp;</span><a class="ref type-def" href="https://www.collinsdictionary.com/dictionary/english/may" style="background-color: white; border-bottom-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.6); border-bottom-style: dashed; border-image: initial; border-left-color: initial; border-left-style: initial; border-right-color: initial; border-right-style: initial; border-top-color: initial; border-top-style: initial; border-width: 0px 0px 1px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration-line: none; word-wrap: break-word;" title="Definition of may">may</a><span style="background-color: white;">&nbsp;be&nbsp;</span><a class="ref type-def" href="https://www.collinsdictionary.com/dictionary/english/experience" style="background-color: white; border-bottom-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.6); border-bottom-style: dashed; border-image: initial; border-left-color: initial; border-left-style: initial; border-right-color: initial; border-right-style: initial; border-top-color: initial; border-top-style: initial; border-width: 0px 0px 1px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration-line: none; word-wrap: break-word;" title="Definition of experienced">experienced</a><span style="background-color: white;">&nbsp;in&nbsp;</span><a class="ref type-def" href="https://www.collinsdictionary.com/dictionary/english/middle" style="background-color: white; border-bottom-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.6); border-bottom-style: dashed; border-image: initial; border-left-color: initial; border-left-style: initial; border-right-color: initial; border-right-style: initial; border-top-color: initial; border-top-style: initial; border-width: 0px 0px 1px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration-line: none; word-wrap: break-word;" title="Definition of middle">middle</a><span style="background-color: white;">&nbsp;</span><a class="ref type-def" href="https://www.collinsdictionary.com/dictionary/english/age_1" style="background-color: white; border-bottom-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.6); border-bottom-style: dashed; border-image: initial; border-left-color: initial; border-left-style: initial; border-right-color: initial; border-right-style: initial; border-top-color: initial; border-top-style: initial; border-width: 0px 0px 1px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration-line: none; word-wrap: break-word;" title="Definition of age">age</a><span style="background-color: white;">&nbsp;involving&nbsp;</span><a class="ref type-def" href="https://www.collinsdictionary.com/dictionary/english/frustration" style="background-color: white; border-bottom-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.6); border-bottom-style: dashed; border-image: initial; border-left-color: initial; border-left-style: initial; border-right-color: initial; border-right-style: initial; border-top-color: initial; border-top-style: initial; border-width: 0px 0px 1px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration-line: none; word-wrap: break-word;" title="Definition of frustration">frustration</a><span style="background-color: white;">,&nbsp;</span><a class="ref type-def" href="https://www.collinsdictionary.com/dictionary/english/panic" style="background-color: white; border-bottom-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.6); border-bottom-style: dashed; border-image: initial; border-left-color: initial; border-left-style: initial; border-right-color: initial; border-right-style: initial; border-top-color: initial; border-top-style: initial; border-width: 0px 0px 1px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration-line: none; word-wrap: break-word;" title="Definition of panic">panic</a><span style="background-color: white;">, and&nbsp;</span><a class="ref type-def" href="https://www.collinsdictionary.com/dictionary/english/feeling" style="background-color: white; border-bottom-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.6); border-bottom-style: dashed; border-image: initial; border-left-color: initial; border-left-style: initial; border-right-color: initial; border-right-style: initial; border-top-color: initial; border-top-style: initial; border-width: 0px 0px 1px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration-line: none; word-wrap: break-word;" title="Definition of feelings">feelings</a><span style="background-color: white;">&nbsp;of pointlessness,&nbsp;</span><a class="ref type-def" href="https://www.collinsdictionary.com/dictionary/english/sometimes" style="background-color: white; border-bottom-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.6); border-bottom-style: dashed; border-image: initial; border-left-color: initial; border-left-style: initial; border-right-color: initial; border-right-style: initial; border-top-color: initial; border-top-style: initial; border-width: 0px 0px 1px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration-line: none; word-wrap: break-word;" title="Definition of sometimes">sometimes</a><span style="background-color: white;">&nbsp;resulting in&nbsp;</span><a class="ref type-def" href="https://www.collinsdictionary.com/dictionary/english/radical" style="background-color: white; border-bottom-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.6); border-bottom-style: dashed; border-image: initial; border-left-color: initial; border-left-style: initial; border-right-color: initial; border-right-style: initial; border-top-color: initial; border-top-style: initial; border-width: 0px 0px 1px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration-line: none; word-wrap: break-word;" title="Definition of radical">radical</a><span style="background-color: white;">&nbsp;and often&nbsp;</span><a class="ref type-def" href="https://www.collinsdictionary.com/dictionary/english/ill-advised" style="background-color: white; border-bottom-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.6); border-bottom-style: dashed; border-image: initial; border-left-color: initial; border-left-style: initial; border-right-color: initial; border-right-style: initial; border-top-color: initial; border-top-style: initial; border-width: 0px 0px 1px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration-line: none; word-wrap: break-word;" title="Definition of ill-advised">ill-advised</a><span style="background-color: white;">&nbsp;changes of&nbsp;</span><a class="ref type-def" href="https://www.collinsdictionary.com/dictionary/english/lifestyle" style="background-color: white; border-bottom-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.6); border-bottom-style: dashed; border-image: initial; border-left-color: initial; border-left-style: initial; border-right-color: initial; border-right-style: initial; border-top-color: initial; border-top-style: initial; border-width: 0px 0px 1px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration-line: none; word-wrap: break-word;" title="Definition of lifestyle">lifestyle</a></div></div></div></div>If racing bikes is&nbsp;the epitome of where modern cycling is, with all the shiny machines, techno&nbsp;gadgets, and flashy kit, then The Big Day Out is all about adventure, discovery, endurance and camaraderie. And maybe a cover for four oldish guys each having their own version of a midlife crisis.<br /><br />Still inspired and motivated by the <a href="https://cyclingtips.com/2014/02/cam-and-richies-excellent-adventure/">mammoth Birthday Ride</a>&nbsp;that Richie Porte and Cameron Wurf did in 2012, The Big Day Out has taken on a life of its own. There is a selection committee. We have route planning sessions. And now, we even have themes. But the point of it all is still the same - mates on bikes having fun together, exploring our beautiful countryside, doing something out of the ordinary.<br /><blockquote align="center" class="twitter-tweet" data-lang="en"><div dir="ltr" lang="en">After several months of careful planning, heated exchanges, &amp; a few whacky ideas, the <a href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/BigDayOut?src=hash&amp;ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">#BigDayOut</a>™ committee has finalised a route. Invitations to new v̶i̶c̶t̶i̶m̶s̶ inductees have been sent, &amp; qualifying haikus have been received. Now we wait for the perfect day to ride bikes! <a href="https://t.co/bWIWUVURCN">pic.twitter.com/bWIWUVURCN</a></div>— Dane Walsh (@velotales) <a href="https://twitter.com/velotales/status/964435828423450625?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">February 16, 2018</a></blockquote><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="https://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script> In its fifth year this year, we wanted to do something special. And not just special in the sense of riding a ridiculously long way, but make it about something. We toyed with the idea of an offroad Big Day Out, we considered a Big Day Out of Everesting, but then it hit us. What is the one topic of conversation that seems to dominate most social gatherings these days? The water crisis, showering with a bucket, not being able to flush the toilet, the smell of grey water hanging in the early morning air, and the lengths people will go to fill their pools and water their grass. And so The Damn Dam Big Day Out was born - a factfinding&nbsp;mission on bikes to check out 5 dams dotted around the Western Cape.<br /><br />As is customary, the BDO committee considered inviting a few new outsiders to join in on our adventures. Added to this, Halfway Robertson hadn't got the memo that sympathy eating during his wife's pregnancy should end with the birth of their child. At the risk of living up to his nickname, he graciously bowed out of the 2018 edition before the riding even started, but not before helping with the selection process. A short list was drawn up, invitations were sent out, and acceptance was subject to the submission of a haiku.<br /><blockquote align="center" class="twitter-tweet" data-cards="hidden" data-lang="en"><div dir="ltr" lang="en">A <a href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/BigDayOut?src=hash&amp;ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">#BigDayOut</a>™ haiku from <a href="https://twitter.com/timbrink?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">@timbrink</a>:<br /><br />Bugger the Argus.<br />How can anyone resist<br />Such a bad idea?<br /><br />🚴💪🌞 <a href="https://t.co/SEkDVOgxO8">pic.twitter.com/SEkDVOgxO8</a></div>— Dane Walsh (@velotales) <a href="https://twitter.com/velotales/status/965495876616687617?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">February 19, 2018</a></blockquote><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="https://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script> <br /><blockquote align="center" class="twitter-tweet" data-cards="hidden" data-lang="en"><div dir="ltr" lang="en">And another <a href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/BigDayOut?src=hash&amp;ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">#BigDayOut</a>™ haiku, this time from <a href="https://twitter.com/MikeB_SA?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">@MikeB_SA</a>:<br /><br />Long hot ride planned<br />Legs and butt concerned a bit<br />Leave invite I can't<br /><br />🚴‍♂️🍔🌞😁 <a href="https://t.co/wr31QxiWLw">pic.twitter.com/wr31QxiWLw</a></div>— Dane Walsh (@velotales) <a href="https://twitter.com/velotales/status/965497338075721729?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">February 19, 2018</a></blockquote><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="https://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script> <br />Now we just needed a perfect day to ride bikes. And this is the difficulty comes in. My idea of perfect and Captain Craig's idea of perfect are somewhat different. I like a hot windless day for riding bikes, Captain Craig prefers it slightly cooler. In the end, life got in the way and we had to settle on a day, regardless of the weather. It wasn't an ideal day, but it wasn't bad either!<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>As we gathered on my front lawn at 4:30 in the morning, there was an air of trepidation, anticipation and nervousness (and the wafting smell of grey water in the morning). Four hundred and eight kilometres, 5 drought-stricken dams, and 4 passes lay ahead of us. The newbies were barely able to conceal the panic.<br /><br />The first dam on our route was Steenbras dam. Built in&nbsp;1921 (with some extensions in 1928), it was the main source of water for the City of Cape Town for the first half of the twentieth century. We didn't actually get to see the dam, but we saw the sign to the dam next to the gate that prevented us from seeing the dam. So we know it's still there. And we got to see an impressive view of Cape Town still sleeping.<br /><blockquote align="center" class="twitter-tweet" data-lang="en"><div dir="ltr" lang="en">One damn dam done <a href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/BigDayOut?src=hash&amp;ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">#BigDayOut</a> <a href="https://t.co/4ZJkj3A6G5">pic.twitter.com/4ZJkj3A6G5</a></div>— Dane Walsh (@velotales) <a href="https://twitter.com/velotales/status/968329340378337280?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">February 27, 2018</a></blockquote><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="https://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script> <br />Back on the road, we made good progress as the first hints of sunrise started to appear, despite the nagging headwind. Spirits were still high, conversation was flowing, and the kilometres were slowly ticking by. As we neared our next dam the road got a little lumpy, and the first signs of weakness within our merry squad were starting to appear. With 100 kilometres in the bag, such signs were to be expected.<br /><blockquote class="instagram-media" data-instgrm-captioned="" data-instgrm-permalink="https://www.instagram.com/p/BfsCcnvFz3m/" data-instgrm-version="8" style="background: #fff; border-radius: 3px; border: 0; box-shadow: 0 0 1px 0 rgba(0 , 0 , 0 , 0.5) , 0 1px 10px 0 rgba(0 , 0 , 0 , 0.15); margin: 1px; max-width: 658px; padding: 0; width: 99.375%;"><div style="padding: 8px;"><div style="background: #F8F8F8; line-height: 0; margin-top: 40px; padding: 50.0% 0; text-align: center; width: 100%;"><div style="background: url(data:image/png; display: block; height: 44px; margin: 0 auto -44px; position: relative; top: -22px; width: 44px;"></div></div><div style="margin: 8px 0 0 0; padding: 0 4px;"><a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BfsCcnvFz3m/" style="color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 17px; text-decoration: none; word-wrap: break-word;" target="_blank">#bigdayout #whileyouweresleeping</a></div><div style="color: #c9c8cd; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 0; margin-top: 8px; overflow: hidden; padding: 8px 0 7px; text-align: center; text-overflow: ellipsis; white-space: nowrap;">A post shared by <a href="https://www.instagram.com/tim.brink/" style="color: #c9c8cd; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 17px;" target="_blank"> Tim Brink</a> (@tim.brink) on <time datetime="2018-02-27T05:17:26+00:00" style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17px;">Feb 26, 2018 at 9:17pm PST</time></div></div></blockquote><script async="" defer="" src="//www.instagram.com/embed.js"></script> And then we saw it. Or what used to be it. The desolate, dry, dusty imprint of where Theewaterskloof Dam used to be. Like a kick to the crotch, it takes your breath away and brings tears to your eyes. If you didn't believe there was a water crisis up until now, the sight of our biggest dam with barely any water in it is enough to make you "shower" with wetwipes&nbsp;from now on, rip up your grass, and fill your pool with concrete.<br /><blockquote align="center" class="twitter-tweet" data-lang="en"><div dir="ltr" lang="en">Two damn dams down. 130kms done. <a href="https://twitter.com/timbrink?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">@timbrink</a> <a href="https://twitter.com/MikeB_SA?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">@MikeB_SA</a> <a href="https://twitter.com/captaincraigSA?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">@captaincraigSA</a> <a href="https://twitter.com/capecycletours?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">@capecycletours</a> <a href="https://t.co/AqqKFRWCTF">pic.twitter.com/AqqKFRWCTF</a></div>— Dane Walsh (@velotales) <a href="https://twitter.com/velotales/status/968399437369311233?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">February 27, 2018</a></blockquote><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="https://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script> <br />A longer than anticipated stop in Villiersdorp for breakfast happened to coincide with my several attempts at repairing a puncture. Not the finest demonstration of my bike maintenance skills, but I was grateful that there were so many people with such enlightening advice. With our stomachs full, my rear tyre finally inflated, and the temperature slowly picking up, we set off for Franschhoek Pass and the safety of being on the "right" side of the mountains once again.<br /><blockquote class="instagram-media" data-instgrm-captioned="" data-instgrm-permalink="https://www.instagram.com/p/BfsTXNdl5e-/" data-instgrm-version="8" style="background: #fff; border-radius: 3px; border: 0; box-shadow: 0 0 1px 0 rgba(0 , 0 , 0 , 0.5) , 0 1px 10px 0 rgba(0 , 0 , 0 , 0.15); margin: 1px; max-width: 658px; padding: 0; width: 99.375%;"><div style="padding: 8px;"><div style="background: #F8F8F8; line-height: 0; margin-top: 40px; padding: 50.0% 0; text-align: center; width: 100%;"><div style="background: url(data:image/png; display: block; height: 44px; margin: 0 auto -44px; position: relative; top: -22px; width: 44px;"></div></div><div style="margin: 8px 0 0 0; padding: 0 4px;"><a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BfsTXNdl5e-/" style="color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 17px; text-decoration: none; word-wrap: break-word;" target="_blank">130km done. Breakfast in Villiersdorp. #bigdayout</a></div><div style="color: #c9c8cd; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 0; margin-top: 8px; overflow: hidden; padding: 8px 0 7px; text-align: center; text-overflow: ellipsis; white-space: nowrap;">A post shared by <a href="https://www.instagram.com/tim.brink/" style="color: #c9c8cd; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 17px;" target="_blank"> Tim Brink</a> (@tim.brink) on <time datetime="2018-02-27T07:45:14+00:00" style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17px;">Feb 26, 2018 at 11:45pm PST</time></div></div></blockquote><script async="" defer="" src="//www.instagram.com/embed.js"></script> One of our new recruits has always had issues with Franschhoek Pass. Right from the first time I met him. Despite the rather favourable conditions, the result was still the same. Tim imploded. Several times. And there is nothing worse than being that guy, living in a world of hurt, trying to get over a deceptively long climb. We've all been there, and while three of us were glad to still have legs, we knew the demons well that Tim was fighting with each pedal stroke.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Xa90isJ9fcM/WqGra9-wtyI/AAAAAAABGUk/lthdAAkxpwknx8zI-oN7AwFyNjnhirbMQCKgBGAs/s1600/20180227_111619.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Xa90isJ9fcM/WqGra9-wtyI/AAAAAAABGUk/lthdAAkxpwknx8zI-oN7AwFyNjnhirbMQCKgBGAs/s1600/20180227_111619.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Euro pro wannabee</td></tr></tbody></table>After what seemed like an eternity, we crested the climb to the welcoming view of the Franschhoek valley, and in a flash, the downhill drag racers were off. Tim's recent ordeal a thing behind him, and Captain Craig only too happy to be descending the pass in the daylight. Myself and Mike, the more risk averse in our quartet made out way down at our own pace (this is the polite way of saying that we suck at going downhill). In the distance, our next dam beckoned.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zV1Z0HaEk6c/WqGwbDYPx-I/AAAAAAABGVk/_IaV9yAsohEqmtpmOO0uMR6qUHBa0lAngCKgBGAs/s1600/IMG_20130306_142816.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zV1Z0HaEk6c/WqGwbDYPx-I/AAAAAAABGVk/_IaV9yAsohEqmtpmOO0uMR6qUHBa0lAngCKgBGAs/s1600/IMG_20130306_142816.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tim in 2013, still hating the Pass</td></tr></tbody></table>The Berg River Dam is the new kid on the block and was the first dam in South Africa to be designed, constructed and operated in accordance with the guidelines of the United Nations World Commission on Dams. As far as dams go, it's unimpressive. It has all the usual features. A wall, an overflow thingy, and one of those towers that they use to suck the water out with (which must have been doing a very good job as most of the water seemed to be missing).<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7oaDXsy9uio/WqGrawlQA0I/AAAAAAABGUk/L350WletQbkc7OQIjWZF2DOp3Nb4MKjWACKgBGAs/s1600/20180227_122028.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7oaDXsy9uio/WqGrawlQA0I/AAAAAAABGUk/L350WletQbkc7OQIjWZF2DOp3Nb4MKjWACKgBGAs/s1600/20180227_122028.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Berg River Dam</td></tr></tbody></table>It was around this point that we discovered that Tim's belly and my tyre were both having issues. Rather similar issues actually - they were both venting large amounts air, impeding our progress. Luckily, my issue was easily fixed by a quick detour into Paarl for spares. Tim's belly was not as easy to fix, and he had to make the dreaded decision about withdrawing from the BDO. Rather on this side of the mountains before we headed back over into NoUber territory.<br /><blockquote class="instagram-media" data-instgrm-captioned="" data-instgrm-permalink="https://www.instagram.com/p/BfstOnRlBXG/" data-instgrm-version="8" style="background: #fff; border-radius: 3px; border: 0; box-shadow: 0 0 1px 0 rgba(0 , 0 , 0 , 0.5) , 0 1px 10px 0 rgba(0 , 0 , 0 , 0.15); margin: 1px; max-width: 658px; padding: 0; width: 99.375%;"><div style="padding: 8px;"><div style="background: #F8F8F8; line-height: 0; margin-top: 40px; padding: 50.0% 0; text-align: center; width: 100%;"><div style="background: url(data:image/png; display: block; height: 44px; margin: 0 auto -44px; position: relative; top: -22px; width: 44px;"></div></div><div style="margin: 8px 0 0 0; padding: 0 4px;"><a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BfstOnRlBXG/" style="color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 17px; text-decoration: none; word-wrap: break-word;" target="_blank">Desperate times on the Big Day Out</a></div><div style="color: #c9c8cd; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 0; margin-top: 8px; overflow: hidden; padding: 8px 0 7px; text-align: center; text-overflow: ellipsis; white-space: nowrap;">A post shared by <a href="https://www.instagram.com/tim.brink/" style="color: #c9c8cd; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 17px;" target="_blank"> Tim Brink</a> (@tim.brink) on <time datetime="2018-02-27T11:31:15+00:00" style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17px;">Feb 27, 2018 at 3:31am PST</time></div></div></blockquote><script async="" defer="" src="//www.instagram.com/embed.js"></script> <br /><br />As we parted ways, the three remaining BDOers quickly popped into Wemershoek Dam. Another completely unremarkable dam made even more unremarkable in that we didn't actually get to see it. But we saw the gate with the dam's name on it. And rumour has it that the dam is also rather empty.<br /><br />With 200 kilometres done we hit another big climb - Captain Craig's dreaded Du Toitskloof Pass. And while Captain Craig was cursing his decision to once again ride BDO, Mike had secretly found a set of legs and was putting them to good use up the mountain. It might also have been the copious amount of snacks and supplies that he'd been transferring&nbsp;all morning long from his overstuffed pockets into his always beckoning mouth. Snack Monster Mike.<br /><br />Stopping for a nature break tells you a lot about a cyclist. The real experts can "go" while still riding along - those are the can't-waste-a-second, no modesty, I-wish-I-was-pro kind of guys that don't care if they urinate on half the peloton, as long as they look cool. Then there are Stop n Drop guys - when the urge hits them, they'll stop wherever they are, whip it out and do what needs to be done. No time for pleasantries. It's a bodily function and it's happening now! Lastly, there are those guys who treat a nature break like a space shuttle launch. Everything has to be perfect. The wind direction, the slope of the ground, the protection from onlooking eyes, the view, a place to optimally lean your bike up against. And if any one of those parameters isn't within bounds, the launch is cancelled and the countdown is reset. Snack Monster Mike is one of those guys. We literally spent our entire Big Day Out looking for the perfect spot to wee.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/--CGzlHPVK9s/WqGtKLYyW_I/AAAAAAABGVM/OxpMeQkUasIy7CxJjmZxTPGVgYG-yRARACKgBGAs/s1600/20180227_165211.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/--CGzlHPVK9s/WqGtKLYyW_I/AAAAAAABGVM/OxpMeQkUasIy7CxJjmZxTPGVgYG-yRARACKgBGAs/s1600/20180227_165211.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The desolate looking Brandvlei dam</td></tr></tbody></table>Cresting Du Toitskloof Pass is a mixed blessing - the climbing is over and a beautiful descent awaits us, but we're still going in the wrong direction from home, and the only way back to the "right" side of the mountains is over another pass. But we'd come this far, and despite being two hours behind schedule, we would continue on our adventure. We had one more dam to see.<br /><br />A fun descent, a relatively quick stop for water and before long we were heading towards Rawsonville. An impromptu stop for snacks turned into a late lunch, with no one in any real rush to get going again. It was here, at a rather nondescript petrol station in Rawsonville, surrounded by curious onlookers and amused bystanders that Captain Craig probably had the best idea of his life. I've been lucky enough to be have experienced a couple of his good ideas in the past, like the time he thought it would be fun to ride some new looking single track in Jonkershoek, despite the no entry signs and logs across the trail. It turned out we'd just entered the new downhill track. On cross country bikes. And the track was still under construction. It's the closest I've come to having to change my cycling shorts! Then there was the time we went for a quick ride with one bottle of water and came back 6 hours later because Captain Craig wanted to "see where that road went". But this was different. Snack Monster Mike and I had bought some cokes and chocolate milks, feeling rather proud of ourselves when Captain Craig came towards us with an ice cream! Sheer genius!! I can safely say that was the best ice cream I have ever eaten in my entire life. No ice cream will ever elicit the emotions of that Rawsonville petrol station ice cream. Ever!<br /><blockquote align="center" class="twitter-tweet" data-lang="en"><div dir="ltr" lang="en">Running a bit late but always time for a snack at <a href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/BigDayOut?src=hash&amp;ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">#BigDayOut</a> <a href="https://twitter.com/MikeB_SA?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">@MikeB_SA</a> <a href="https://twitter.com/captaincraigSA?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">@captaincraigSA</a> <a href="https://twitter.com/capecycletours?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">@capecycletours</a> <a href="https://twitter.com/timbrink?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">@timbrink</a> 4 damn dams down and 140kms to go <a href="https://t.co/sOAOgFP2IJ">pic.twitter.com/sOAOgFP2IJ</a></div>— Dane Walsh (@velotales) <a href="https://twitter.com/velotales/status/968493060467372032?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">February 27, 2018</a></blockquote><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="https://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script> <br />We had a short 7 kilometre trip to make to our last dam before we'd finally turn for home. The Brandvlei dam is actually two dams side by side, separated by a wall. When the dam is full, the wall is submerged, and it looks like one massive dam. As you can imagine, there is no danger of that happening in the foreseeable future. The only other interesting thing about the dam (apart from a warm water spring that feeds it) is the name of the river it is on: Holsloot (maybe that's just my juvenile brain taking over again!). Seeing the Brandvlei dam up close, a once massive expanse of water, looking so empty, was another jolt to the system. We are going to need a lot of rain to fill these dams up!<br /><blockquote align="center" class="twitter-tweet" data-lang="en"><div dir="ltr" lang="en">While we didn't see all the damn dams, we got pretty close. And it makes one realise just how desperate our water situation is. <a href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/BigDayOut?src=hash&amp;ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">#BigDayOut</a> <a href="https://twitter.com/MikeB_SA?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">@MikeB_SA</a> <a href="https://twitter.com/timbrink?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">@timbrink</a> <a href="https://twitter.com/captaincraigSA?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">@captaincraigSA</a> <a href="https://t.co/W9tb4TdrR1">pic.twitter.com/W9tb4TdrR1</a></div>— Dane Walsh (@velotales) <a href="https://twitter.com/velotales/status/968610233496035334?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">February 27, 2018</a></blockquote><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="https://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script> <br />With the final dam of our journey ticked, we had 130 kilometres to go. More importantly, we wanted to get over Bainskloof Pass before sunset, and that was 60 kilometres away with roughly 2 hours of sunlight left. And we still hadn't officially had lunch. In a rare display of urgency, both Captain Craig and Snack Monster Mike put aside their desires to fill their bellies, and we made the collective decision to get up and over Bainskloof as fast as we could. Well, as fast as anyone can with 280 kilometres already in the legs.<br /><br />We pushed on through Slanghoek, hoping the headwind would drop and the ice cream would kick in, but neither happened. The wind picked up and as our energy levels started to dip, Snack Monster Mike showed us a secret snack spot (obviously). Some life-saving coke and some water later and we were ready for the race against the sun.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-A_4D4_8qZSY/WqGraxcSzfI/AAAAAAABGUk/vuEKmYzZ6IIPh8Twk52SvanKbakTKhY3wCKgBGAs/s1600/20180227_175737.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-A_4D4_8qZSY/WqGraxcSzfI/AAAAAAABGUk/vuEKmYzZ6IIPh8Twk52SvanKbakTKhY3wCKgBGAs/s1600/20180227_175737.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The secret snack spot</td></tr></tbody></table>But first, Snack Monster Mike had to wee. He could have gone at the secret snack spot, but something wasn't quite right there. He could have gone on the side of the quiet valley road, but something was quite right there either. He eventually found a spot, and as Captain Craig and I were dismounting to sympathy wee, we could see by the look in Snack Monster Mike's eyes, that something wasn't quite right. Thankfully, a bit of cajoling and some rapid improvising did the trick and the old gate posts of&nbsp;Bergsig Estate met his exacting needs for a wee stop.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ttXXU1NDR24/WqGrayowHUI/AAAAAAABGUk/GsoIYPg4t2MEog_cL20DKu46E3UyocYngCKgBGAs/s1600/20180227_191346.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ttXXU1NDR24/WqGrayowHUI/AAAAAAABGUk/GsoIYPg4t2MEog_cL20DKu46E3UyocYngCKgBGAs/s1600/20180227_191346.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Climbing</td></tr></tbody></table>Back on the bike, I was suffering from a bout of white line fever. We had an objective, something to race against, and that was enough to numb the pain and give the legs something to aim at. And what a spectacular race it was. Us against the Sun. With the towering mountains on either side keeping an eye on proceedings. It's moments like this that we'll remember forever. The colour of the peaks in the fading light. The moon making an appearance just as the sun was about to dip below the horizon. The melodic squeak of Captain Craig's pedal.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-VoDYDBRbrA0/WqGra0_TAlI/AAAAAAABGUk/rNebL9ErW3cp_h8NlX96tF7rSeVYnuelgCKgBGAs/s1600/20180227_184056.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-VoDYDBRbrA0/WqGra0_TAlI/AAAAAAABGUk/rNebL9ErW3cp_h8NlX96tF7rSeVYnuelgCKgBGAs/s1600/20180227_184056.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Snack Monster Mike still able to wave</td></tr></tbody></table>We summitted Bainskloof as the light started fading, and all that stood between us and dinner was a frantic dash down the twisty windy bends of the pass. Like kids, we were riding bikes and having fun, soaking up the freedom and enjoyment that only a bike ride can bring. Three hundred and forty kilometres in, and we were still having a good time!<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6Pt7xOB1oIY/WqGra35egvI/AAAAAAABGUk/uuu6FvgXM340giRTalY9a3dg1codwWusQCKgBGAs/s1600/20180227_191946.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6Pt7xOB1oIY/WqGra35egvI/AAAAAAABGUk/uuu6FvgXM340giRTalY9a3dg1codwWusQCKgBGAs/s1600/20180227_191946.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The top of Bains</td></tr></tbody></table>Dinner in Wellington consisted of a Steers Burger of Regret and a milkshake. No gourmet dining - this was eating out of necessity. As we hopped on our bikes for the final time, Snack Monster Mike informed us that he had to wee. Again. We convinced him that we'd stop out on the road, away from prying eyes, under the cover of darkness, and we set off into an annoying headwind.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lTNpbL3DrNQ/WqGra4dI-lI/AAAAAAABGUk/IzKtFSqbWnkCukTelJyVDCDDJ_OpuweLwCKgBGAs/s1600/20180227_200638.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lTNpbL3DrNQ/WqGra4dI-lI/AAAAAAABGUk/IzKtFSqbWnkCukTelJyVDCDDJ_OpuweLwCKgBGAs/s1600/20180227_200638.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Burger of Regret</td></tr></tbody></table>Between the three of us, we had one commuter light, two flashy white lights, and two flashy red rear lights. Our missing companion Tim had been the light guy (while he never did finish The Big Day Out, he managed A Fairly Decent Day Out with 280 kilometres in the bag, despite the stomach demons). Thankfully, the moon was almost full and it did a great job of keeping the total darkness at bay.<br /><br />The next 40 kilometres were done in near silence, one pedal stroke after another (except for the squeak). It felt like we were flying along - we had the wind in our faces with limited visual cues for us to gauge our speed against, but reality sunk in when I snuck a peek at my Garmin. It might have felt like we were whizzing along in the low 30s, but the reality was that we were barely holding 25km/h. Our final 68kms went from taking us 2h30, to somewhere over 3h30.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-JA6UYBD3ceg/WqGuubFNj2I/AAAAAAABGVY/rGtYagxc5qobdCaXTwGraoHJiFcBLq20QCKgBGAs/s1600/IMG-20180227-WA0009.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-JA6UYBD3ceg/WqGuubFNj2I/AAAAAAABGVY/rGtYagxc5qobdCaXTwGraoHJiFcBLq20QCKgBGAs/s1600/IMG-20180227-WA0009.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from the supporter's car</td></tr></tbody></table>And yet there is something special about just riding along in near total darkness, listening to the noises around you, and talking to the voices in your head. Your entire world at that very moment consists of a small puddle of light, the two guys nearby, and whatever thoughts you're able to summon to keep you company, and at the same time numb the pain.<br /><blockquote align="center" class="twitter-tweet" data-lang="en"><div dir="ltr" lang="en">408kms, 4238m of climbing, 19 bottles of fluid, 15 hours of riding, 5 dams, and one very sweaty set of <a href="https://twitter.com/capecycletours?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">@capecycletours</a> <a href="https://twitter.com/ciovitacycling?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">@ciovitacycling</a> kit. <a href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/BigDayOut?src=hash&amp;ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">#BigDayOut</a> 2018. What an adventure with mates!👌🚲 <a href="https://t.co/z2JUww9Kwn">pic.twitter.com/z2JUww9Kwn</a></div>— Dane Walsh (@velotales) <a href="https://twitter.com/velotales/status/969562113021808640?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">March 2, 2018</a></blockquote><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="https://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script> <br />With just over 30 kilometres to go, we were once again surprised by the appearance of The Big Day Out fans. My wife and son taking the time to find us and escort home. It was also around this time that I was banished from riding on the front - my white line fever not being appreciated by my fellow companions. It was also around this time that we remembered that we'd promised Snack Monster Mike a wee stop 45 kilometres previously. Our enquiries revealed that he did still need to go and that he hadn't pulled a euro pro wannabee move and gone while on the bike, much to our disappointment.<br /><blockquote align="center" class="twitter-tweet" data-lang="en"><div dir="ltr" lang="en">The Damn Dam <a href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/BigDayOut?src=hash&amp;ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">#BigDayOut</a> is done and dusted. 5 dams, 408kms, 4238m of climbing. Well done <a href="https://twitter.com/timbrink?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">@timbrink</a> <a href="https://twitter.com/MikeB_SA?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">@MikeB_SA</a> <a href="https://twitter.com/captaincraigSA?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">@captaincraigSA</a> <a href="https://t.co/hFTzK0yuAv">pic.twitter.com/hFTzK0yuAv</a></div>— Dane Walsh (@velotales) <a href="https://twitter.com/velotales/status/968596659360976896?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">February 27, 2018</a></blockquote><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="https://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script> A quick wee stop, 3 rolling hills and the quiet roads of Somerset West later and we rolled back into my street. The same street we'd left in the dark 17 hours previously. We'd gone on a day-long adventure, seeing some pretty cool, and some pretty heart-wrenching things, and we were back where we started. Normal people had gone about their normal lives, and we'd done something special. From afar it might look like a midlife crisis, but I prefer to believe it's just a continuation of a lifelong passion for adventure. The day we lose that passion is the day we'll have our midlife crises.<br /><blockquote align="center" class="twitter-tweet" data-lang="en"><div dir="ltr" lang="en">This is cycling :) <br />At the <a href="https://twitter.com/CTCycleTour?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">@CTCycleTour</a> for juniors, this bicycle angel stopped midway through the 1.3km event to be curious and count the stones.<br />Heart melted.<br />Never race so hard you forget to enjoy the scenery! <a href="https://t.co/4SuK6kSAVv">pic.twitter.com/4SuK6kSAVv</a></div>— Kirsten Wilkins (@contestedspaces) <a href="https://twitter.com/contestedspaces/status/970569974690533376?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">March 5, 2018</a></blockquote><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="https://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script> <br /> <br /></div><iframe align="center" allowtransparency="true" frameborder="0" height="405" scrolling="no" src="https://www.strava.com/activities/1429024942/embed/4be94fa2bacc6581ba06ba819d026840985d167a" width="590"></iframe> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/VeloTales/~4/sIaKAyQmK5s" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Velouriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06667777448042670759noreply@blogger.com0http://www.velotales.com/2018/03/the-bigdayout-2018.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5990819476840975001.post-58571885838318942872017-12-08T11:22:00.001+02:002017-12-08T19:19:48.624+02:00The Double Century 2017<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">On the surface, The Coronation Double Century might be a 12 man team trial over 202kms of winding roads through the Overberg. But scratch a little deeper, and you'll quickly discover the intricate and complex nature of this yearly pilgrimage. A psychologist's wet dream into the inner working's of the minds of endurance athletes of all shapes and sizes.<br /><blockquote align="center" class="twitter-tweet" data-lang="en"><div dir="ltr" lang="en">Spot the 2018 World Tour Rider in the <a href="https://twitter.com/HotChillee?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">@HotChillee</a> ranks... <a href="https://twitter.com/nich_dlamini?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">@nich_dlamini</a> <a href="https://twitter.com/TeamDiData?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">@TeamDiData</a> <a href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/cdc2017?src=hash&amp;ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">#cdc2017</a> <a href="https://t.co/3TuFUd4ACX">pic.twitter.com/3TuFUd4ACX</a></div>— Coronation DC (@TheCoronationDC) <a href="https://twitter.com/TheCoronationDC/status/934294594573012992?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">November 25, 2017</a></blockquote><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="https://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script> The scientific papers that could be written about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, or Survivor's Guilt could fill several editions of The Journal of Psychology alone, but what really interests me is the range of emotions before, during and after that I (and hopefully others) experience.<br /><blockquote class="tr_bq">It is said that basic emotions evolved in response to the ecological challenges faced by our remote ancestors and are so primitive as to be ‘hardwired’, with each basic emotion corresponding to a distinct and dedicated neurological circuit. Being hardwired, basic emotions (or ‘affect programs’) are innate and universal, automatic, and fast, and trigger behaviour with a high survival value.</blockquote>Robert Plutchik identified 8 basic emotions, and I'm quite sure I experience each and every one of them in various measures:<br /><br /><b>Anticipation</b><br />Mumblings of Double Century plans and strategies begin almost as soon as the saddles sores and aching legs from the previous edition have recovered. Things that can be done better, riders that need to be "convinced" to ride with us, improvements to the after party. We scheme and conspire for months on end, convinced that we're finally going to get it right. As race day&nbsp;approaches, the anticipation of the sufferfest&nbsp;that awaits is almost palpable. In the final week before the big day, we go from "I can't wait to race bikes in Swellendam over 200kms" to "I really don't know why I do this to myself every year". And yet somehow, we make the start line each and every year!<br /><blockquote align="center" class="twitter-tweet" data-lang="en"><div dir="ltr" lang="en">And the pain train is off! Anyone would think that we had a World Tour team rider in our HotChillee/Velokhaya men’s team at the <a href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/cdc2017?src=hash&amp;ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">#cdc2017</a>. Safe miles all... <a href="https://t.co/WhcDtD5YpS">pic.twitter.com/WhcDtD5YpS</a></div>— HotChillee (@HotChillee) <a href="https://twitter.com/HotChillee/status/934297827647410176?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">November 25, 2017</a></blockquote><br /><b>Surprise</b><br />For me, the biggest surprise of the day is seeing who is going to be the first rider to pop. None of us wants to be that guy. It's a long and often lonely ride to the finish, and then there is the year-long stigma of being the guy that tapped out first. So, for the first hour of racing, we're not really racing the teams around us, we're shadowboxing with each other, taking our turn on the front and giving it almost everything, but secretly holding something back and hoping that someone else is going to crack first.<br /><blockquote align="center" class="twitter-tweet" data-lang="en"><div dir="ltr" lang="en">Men’s race update at Ashton check Point <a href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/cdc2017?src=hash&amp;ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">#cdc2017</a> <a href="https://t.co/EqigwL7FTm">pic.twitter.com/EqigwL7FTm</a></div>— Coronation DC (@TheCoronationDC) <a href="https://twitter.com/TheCoronationDC/status/934347923684511746?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">November 25, 2017</a></blockquote>Captain Craig is never on my list of guys who are going to crack early on. He's the master of digging deep and holding a wheel, so when he came past me (backwards) pedaling&nbsp;squares after 40 minutes I thought he was kidding. A look over my shoulder a few seconds later and he was gone - our team captain relegated to a day of trying to beat the sweep vehicle and control the demons in his belly. (He was successful with the first challenge, not so much the second)<br /><br /><b>Joy</b><br />As we descend deeper into our own worlds of misery and suffering, the strangest things bring us joy. A bite of an energy bar, the slight shift in wind direction, the overtaking of another team. While racing bikes as fast we can is fun, it's not joyful. It's the things that happen while we're hurting ourselves that bring us joy.<br /><br />I've never been so happy to see a complete stranger standing on the side of the road dishing out water and coke. My whole survival depended on this stranger (who also happened to be our backup) to get me home, and for those 5 minutes where I was being fussed over, I was happy. A kind of primitive and primal happiness. Happy to be alive. Happy to be riding bikes with mates. Happy to have full bottles.<br /><br /><b>Sadness</b><br />We're a team of journeymen, a motley crew of renegade bike riders that gather for just one day. We come from different towns, different provinces, different countries, and yet somehow the stars align on race day. For 5 hours we're a team. A collective greater than the sum of the parts. We ride hard. Sometimes too hard. Giving it everything. And then it's all over. We go our separate ways, the team disbanded for another year. We might bump into each other here and there, but for most riders, we won't see each other ever again. And that's sad.<br /><blockquote align="center" class="twitter-tweet" data-lang="en"><div dir="ltr" lang="en">Race update: Men’s at 160km <a href="https://t.co/oOLCTdY5xi">pic.twitter.com/oOLCTdY5xi</a></div>— Coronation DC (@TheCoronationDC) <a href="https://twitter.com/TheCoronationDC/status/934361944550793217?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">November 25, 2017</a></blockquote><br /><b>Anger</b><br />In the oxygen starved environment that is the HotChillee Racing pace line, the weirdest things can fill you with anger and rage. Someone dropping a gel sachet. A slower team not moving over to the left. Your own teammate subjecting you to 480 watts of torture for 5 minutes. These things rattle around in your head, taking on a life of their own, and before you know it, you're stomping the pedals with fury. I like that sort of anger. It's a powerful motivator to push through the pain. To take one more turn on the front. To squeeze the last remaining energy from my legs.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-An1k-9A19m0/WipaeDyi9uI/AAAAAAABCr8/hRAWes9jnQE2bU_ab9lC1j98rV0pHW3BwCLcBGAs/s1600/CK_251117_CoronationDC_2033-640x427.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="427" data-original-width="640" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-An1k-9A19m0/WipaeDyi9uI/AAAAAAABCr8/hRAWes9jnQE2bU_ab9lC1j98rV0pHW3BwCLcBGAs/s320/CK_251117_CoronationDC_2033-640x427.jpg" width="540" /></a></div><br />And then there is the bad anger. The anger that brings out my Hulk. This doesn't happen often, particularly when racing bikes, but when it does I just feel like giving up. Giving up on the race, and giving up on cycling in general. Cycling is supposed to be fun, especially at our level. We're just weekend warriors in search of glory. Cycling is our escape from the 9 to 5 routine. So when one team takes things a little too seriously, crossing the line from racing hard but fairly to blatantly cheating, the bad anger starts to boil inside me. What annoys me most is that a team whose name I cannot mention cheat by drafting us for 30kms, despite our protestations, and then step onto the top step of the mixed podium and celebrate their "victory". Are they so morally bankrupt that this is acceptable to them? Do they wear that medal with pride, or is it a dark reminder of the depths that they will go to in order to win?<br /><br /><b>Fear</b><br />Going into this year's Double Century I was confident of my fitness and form. I wasn't in peak peak condition, but I was solid. The speed was there. The endurance was there. The motivation was there. It was going to be a good race. And then we got news that Nic Dlamini would be joining us as our rent-a-pro. My world came tumbling down. Gone are the days of Nic riding on restricted gears, pumping out a cadence of 130 plus in order to keep up with us. He's now a lean, mean racing machine with a particular talent for crushing the souls of amateur riders with his abundance of watts that many of us can only dream of. Suddenly, I was fearing for my well being. The race had gone from an unbearable sufferfest with mates to a potential death ride on board the Nic Dlamini Agony Express.<br /><blockquote align="center" class="twitter-tweet" data-lang="en"><div dir="ltr" lang="en">.<a href="https://twitter.com/nich_dlamini?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">@nich_dlamini</a> leads a big bunch including <a href="https://twitter.com/HotChillee?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">@HotChillee</a> &amp; <a href="https://twitter.com/FreewheelZA?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">@FreewheelZA</a> .... <a href="https://twitter.com/AlfaBodyWorks?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">@AlfaBodyWorks</a> charging close behind <a href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/cdc2017?src=hash&amp;ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">#cdc2017</a> <a href="https://t.co/cq2FqS9Kg3">pic.twitter.com/cq2FqS9Kg3</a></div>— Coronation DC (@TheCoronationDC) <a href="https://twitter.com/TheCoronationDC/status/934324115246321664?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">November 25, 2017</a></blockquote><br />And he didn't disappoint. Without looking up, we all knew when Nic was near the front as all our numbers would go haywire. Like the instruments of a plane flying into the Bermuda Triangle, things on our cycling computers just didn't make sense. The speed would shoot up, heart rates would max out and the watts were off the charts. We were going way too hard, and we all knew it, but we were powerless to stop it. Instead, eleven riders would cower in fear, waiting for the next Dlamini drubbing.<br /><br /><b>Trust</b><br />With the advent of things like Strava and GPS tracking, it's relatively easy to get an idea of your team members' fitness and form. But it's not a perfect science. Come race day, each member of the HotChillee Racing team places a certain amount of trust in the rest of the team that they've done the hard miles. Being the optimists that we are, we like to believe that everyone is in tip top condition, but until that gun goes, you never really know what sort of ride it is going to be. Are we all talk and no walk, or are we going to surprise ourselves and everyone else with a good ride?<br /><br />The opposite is true as well - will my teammates step up when we need them most? Will they give everything for the cause? And the answer is usually yes. Whether it's closing the gap after a dead wheel, or riding me back onto our train after I got dropped on the downhill (again), there is always a teammate that answers the call. Someone punctures and in a flash a wheel is offered (although we suspect there was a selfish component here as Tim no longer had to endure the hiding on board the Nic Dlamini Bullet Train). It's probably this feeling that keeps bringing me back year after year to the Double Century. A twelve musketeers sort of vibe.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/Df77s1A81Fc/0.jpg" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/Df77s1A81Fc?feature=player_embedded" width="560"></iframe></div><br /><b>Disgust</b><br />Again, the team that I cannot mention. They went from a morally dubious bunch of bike riders to everything I hate about cycling and cyclists in the space of 3 seconds. I've played several sports over the years, I've raced at various levels, in various disciplines, and not once in the 34 years that I've been riding bikes has anyone ever punched me. But that all changed when I asked a member of the team that I cannot mention to give me some room so that I could rejoin the HotChillee paceline (that they had been wheel sucking for 30 kilometers). I got an expletive filled rant followed by a punch for my efforts.<br /><br />Where did cycling go wrong that this is seen as acceptable behaviour? Or is this just a reflection of modern society and how we interact with others? Is this the example we should be setting for tomorrow's generation? Cheat, swear and punch your way to victory? In a fun ride? I'd hate to see the response in a situation where the stakes are a lot higher.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/sTPsArIkoRg/0.jpg" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/sTPsArIkoRg?feature=player_embedded" width="560"></iframe></div><br />As for my actual race report, The Double Century is a difficult race to report on when you spend half the time dropped from your own team. And the bits where I was part of the team are shrouded in a haze of suffering, or blurred as images of my life flashed before my eyes.<br /><br />This is what I wrote on <a href="https://www.bikehub.co.za/topic/169500-event-coronation-double-century-2017/page-16#entry3232085">The BikeHub</a>:<br /><blockquote class="tr_bq">1. Start</blockquote><blockquote class="tr_bq">2. Stare at the bum in front of me while chewing bar tape everytime Nic Dlamini was anywhere near the front.</blockquote><blockquote class="tr_bq">3. Pretend to take a turn on the front, but I was actually too shattered from Nic's 5 minute motorpace session that I was actually recovering while on the front</blockquote><blockquote class="tr_bq">4. Repeat 2 and 3 about 15 times</blockquote><blockquote class="tr_bq">5. Pop spectacularly</blockquote><blockquote class="tr_bq">6. Ponder the meaning of life and what series of bad life decisions had brought me to this point</blockquote><blockquote class="tr_bq">7. Water point 1</blockquote><blockquote class="tr_bq">8. Repeat 2 and 3 about 10 times, but this time there was no popping as I was number 6</blockquote><blockquote class="tr_bq">9. Water point 2</blockquote><blockquote class="tr_bq">10. Pop again - about 2kms out of the water point</blockquote><blockquote class="tr_bq">11. Make a million deals with the muscles in my legs if they could just get me to the finish and not wage a violent war whenever I tried to pedal</blockquote><blockquote class="tr_bq">12. Curse any uphill, no matter the gradient</blockquote><blockquote class="tr_bq">13. Repeat 11 about 37 times</blockquote><blockquote class="tr_bq">14. Finish, vowing to race in a mixed team next year!</blockquote><blockquote class="tr_bq"></blockquote><blockquote class="tr_bq">(15. Two days later start thinking about doing it all again next year!)&nbsp;</blockquote><br />Posted without comment: <br /><blockquote align="center" class="twitter-tweet" data-lang="en"><div dir="ltr" lang="en">Results <a href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/cdc2017?src=hash&amp;ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">#cdc2017</a> Mixed:<br />1. Design in Motion Storck 5:04:41<br />2. Hot Chillee Mixed 5:08:18<br />3. Laurium 5:20:44 <a href="https://t.co/XHFIgzieKV">pic.twitter.com/XHFIgzieKV</a></div>— Coronation DC (@TheCoronationDC) <a href="https://twitter.com/TheCoronationDC/status/934772754892632064?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">November 26, 2017</a></blockquote></div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/VeloTales/~4/87p_Kw4Nbng" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Velouriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06667777448042670759noreply@blogger.com1http://www.velotales.com/2017/12/the-double-century-2017.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5990819476840975001.post-68571205025648811332017-08-17T21:02:00.001+02:002017-10-17T11:26:44.651+02:00Trans Baviaans 2017<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">The tale of Trans Baviaans 2017 begins two weeks before the ride from Willowmore to Jeffreys Bay, at a 100 miler offroad event in Swellendam called <a href="https://www.petrichoradventures.co.za/atp">Around the Pot</a>. As per usual, Captain Craig and I had teamed up, but in an attempt to improve the conversational component of our team we'd sourced some new talent - Hector the Injector. Known for his affinity for pink drinks, rhino admiration, and when on form, his ability to destroy bikes, he seemed like the perfect addition.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wjCWvLgeQRY/WZXSq7AEFrI/AAAAAAAA9SA/D0jj6bEtgAIq0gZX0pQEpxiG4J4gMgmBQCKgBGAs/s1600/20746315_10155458408936425_80995643476408235_o%2B%25281%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wjCWvLgeQRY/WZXSq7AEFrI/AAAAAAAA9SA/D0jj6bEtgAIq0gZX0pQEpxiG4J4gMgmBQCKgBGAs/s1600/20746315_10155458408936425_80995643476408235_o%2B%25281%2529.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Trans Baviaans 2017</td></tr></tbody></table>With the sun barely above the horizon, and the temperature still in single digits, we set off from Swellendam for a dirt road race through the rolling farmlands of Swellengrebel, via Malgas. It had been a while since Captain Craig and I had last raced, and we were eager to see where the legs were. A couple of other race snakes clearly had a similar idea, and before long a very select little bunch had formed at the pointy end of the race. As we traded shots on the front, testing each other out, the bunch continued to be whittled down, with eventually just 12 riders remaining. Like heavyweight boxers landing blow after blow the efforts soon took their toll - not on those at the front, but on the handful of riders dangling on the back, until Captain Craig landed the knockout blow. To Hector.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ku3FmQjdRXU/WZXXn7Gpu4I/AAAAAAAA9TE/OWeHLwosDmIicfSSOZMIf-0Gto0xhHwUwCKgBGAs/s1600/IMG-20170729-WA0010.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ku3FmQjdRXU/WZXXn7Gpu4I/AAAAAAAA9TE/OWeHLwosDmIicfSSOZMIf-0Gto0xhHwUwCKgBGAs/s1600/IMG-20170729-WA0010.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dodging cows, Around the Pot</td></tr></tbody></table>And just like that, the lead group disintegrated. Four riders got away. While Hector nursed his glass jaw and licked his wounds, Captain Craig and I alternated on the front, occasionally getting a little carried away and racing each other up short climbs or driving the pace on the flats. Hector was hanging, already blowing steam out of his ears when we hit the terrible rollers outside De Hoop Nature reserve. With all the eagerness of a three-toed sloth and the grace of a drunken mastodon, Hector the Deflator exploded like a Ford Kuga into a ball of flames. There were bits everywhere! Captain Craig and I did our best to drag him not only to the halfway mark and some temporary respite but for the remaining 80kms of the race, hoping that it had just been a bad patch. We still managed to win the team competition, and we hoped that the next two weeks would be feverously spent getting healthy, fit and strong.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IRT0qblU0Wk/WZXXn_BJnrI/AAAAAAAA9TE/MggoYyQlnH4Uy8g0NzNBI7-VSL67LbZVACKgBGAs/s1600/20170729_103919.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IRT0qblU0Wk/WZXXn_BJnrI/AAAAAAAA9TE/MggoYyQlnH4Uy8g0NzNBI7-VSL67LbZVACKgBGAs/s1600/20170729_103919.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Halfway, waiting for the pont</td></tr></tbody></table>The buildup to Trans Baviaans primarily consisted of stalking Hector the Selfie Collector on Strava, keeping a watchful eye out for secret training and any improvement to his form. Our hope beyond hope was that <a href="https://www.petrichoradventures.co.za/atp">Around the Pot</a> was just a bad day.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qjjOPaXMmfM/WZXXnyGOZ6I/AAAAAAAA9TE/GsH4ng-Sq2ghzWARrKI21cU3BKzUbj0rgCKgBGAs/s1600/IMG-20170729-WA0002.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qjjOPaXMmfM/WZXXnyGOZ6I/AAAAAAAA9TE/GsH4ng-Sq2ghzWARrKI21cU3BKzUbj0rgCKgBGAs/s1600/IMG-20170729-WA0002.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A false sense of security</td></tr></tbody></table>With bikes washed, bags packed, and excitement levels running high, we all piled into Captain Craig's new <a href="http://capecycletours.com/">Cape Cycle Tours</a> van for the road trip to Willowmore. In the pouring rain. My mind flashed back to my very first Trans Baviaans (and the very first Trans Baviaans), six nervous souls lining up in the pouring rain for an adventure into the unknown. While a lot has changed, a lot has stayed the same. The bikes are radically different to the 26-inch rim-braked clunkers we used to ride, but Wikus's sound system is still inaudible. The road is paved in several sections, but the sosaties at Checkpoint 3 are still legendary. Halogen lights with super heavy battery packs are a thing of the past, but the Kloof is still just as magical and beautiful.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QB_R3bvn-sE/WZXmDv_HZlI/AAAAAAAA9Tc/ug9IX5SlLbM0r149x0YQkONwx_2H6_mvQCKgBGAs/s1600/transbaviaans.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1144" data-original-width="1574" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QB_R3bvn-sE/WZXmDv_HZlI/AAAAAAAA9Tc/ug9IX5SlLbM0r149x0YQkONwx_2H6_mvQCKgBGAs/s1600/transbaviaans.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The first ever Trans Baviaans</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zzXGnDM6_h0/WZXTryWhnZI/AAAAAAAA9SQ/tcRzpHg4XWMctzTpAJCn1XJh1rloXAOQACKgBGAs/s1600/IMG_2042.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="1098" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zzXGnDM6_h0/WZXTryWhnZI/AAAAAAAA9SQ/tcRzpHg4XWMctzTpAJCn1XJh1rloXAOQACKgBGAs/s1600/IMG_2042.JPG" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Registration in Willowmore</td></tr></tbody></table>And as for the town of Willowmore - from a tiny little backwater Karoo town that you'd do your best to avoid, to a quaint little oasis in the middle of nowhere well worth a visit. Talking of backwater towns, we would be spending the evening in Rietbron. This is what Google said when I googled the place:<br /><br /><blockquote class="tr_bq"><blockquote class="tr_bq">When people inform you that the Karoo, South Africa’s arid heartland, is flat and featureless, it might reveal two things about them:</blockquote><blockquote class="tr_bq">One: They were fast asleep when someone drove them through the Karoo;</blockquote><blockquote class="tr_bq">Two: They have never actually been to the Karoo.</blockquote><blockquote class="tr_bq">That’s because in 99 percent of the Karoo, you’re always within sight of a mountain range, an outcrop of conical hills and, in many parts of the Little Karoo, surrounded by craggy peaks.</blockquote><blockquote class="tr_bq">Except when you drive into the little Eastern Cape village of Rietbron, on the R306 between Beaufort West and Willowmore.</blockquote></blockquote><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--qSG1BX_CNQ/WZXSq0MqFxI/AAAAAAAA9SA/YlTje_IY2HoBUHX_FGvGcHzy6aaFr-EGgCKgBGAs/s1600/20170811_175558-EFFECTS.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--qSG1BX_CNQ/WZXSq0MqFxI/AAAAAAAA9SA/YlTje_IY2HoBUHX_FGvGcHzy6aaFr-EGgCKgBGAs/s1600/20170811_175558-EFFECTS.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lots of sky</td></tr></tbody></table>And this bit of advice:<br /><br /><blockquote class="tr_bq">Visiting Rietbron, don’t bring your party hat unless you’re attending the annual sports festival in March. Then you can pack your drinking shoes as well…</blockquote><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TDugjyRN5J0/WZXVC9eBQzI/AAAAAAAA9Ss/YO3Y2rq_ocE1tgzxYlmyA0_6Ys4rEGWHgCKgBGAs/s1600/20170811_175107.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TDugjyRN5J0/WZXVC9eBQzI/AAAAAAAA9Ss/YO3Y2rq_ocE1tgzxYlmyA0_6Ys4rEGWHgCKgBGAs/s1600/20170811_175107.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The only church in SA with a Springbok on top of the steeple</td></tr></tbody></table>We arrived in Rietbron just as the sun was setting. What an&nbsp;eye-catching sight. We also got the sense that they didn't get too many visitors, as while we were exploring the two roads of Rietbron (obviously one was named Voortrekker Road, and the other was named Piet Retief Street), we encountered the local policeman. A jovial guy, he proceeded to tell us all the goings on in Rietbron such as where to buy beer after dark, who to avoid, and the local town politics. He then told us about his drag racing exploits up and down Voortrekker Road (180km/h in 4th gear as the tar ran out), before inviting us around for a braai. As we walked away having refused his invite, we also discovered that the local policeman doubles as the local drug dealer too, his offer of a "banky" going unanswered. After all, we hadn't brought our party hats or drinking shoes.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bExSRVJ99Yk/WZXXNDcO3bI/AAAAAAAA9TA/2HV4kpq6KKwvemBaz1TofXOtjiz85LDVgCKgBGAs/s1600/20170811_175715.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bExSRVJ99Yk/WZXXNDcO3bI/AAAAAAAA9TA/2HV4kpq6KKwvemBaz1TofXOtjiz85LDVgCKgBGAs/s1600/20170811_175715.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An omen?</td></tr></tbody></table>Race day dawned, bright and crisp, and as we waved goodbye to the small town hospitality, our minds switched to the challenge ahead. This included scaring the socks off Hector the Spector with tales of trials and tribulations we'd had previously. From vomiting up The Mother of all Climbs to fixing punctures all day long, we told him how much fun Baviaans is. Gavin, our new backup guy and a runner by nature had that look on his face. A look that showed he thought us cyclists were a crazy bunch, while at the same time feeling slightly concerned for Hector's well being.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8EeOF6q1R6Y/WZXTrxfzpqI/AAAAAAAA9SQ/L60RvoMfuPcpiW8GxusjiI3GPQdOiUJ2ACKgBGAs/s1600/IMG_2064.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8EeOF6q1R6Y/WZXTrxfzpqI/AAAAAAAA9SQ/L60RvoMfuPcpiW8GxusjiI3GPQdOiUJ2ACKgBGAs/s1600/IMG_2064.JPG" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hector the Selfie Collector</td></tr></tbody></table>Decked out in our new <a href="http://capecycletours.com/">Cape Cycle Tours</a> kit, The Cowardly Penguins entered the start chute and waited for our date with destiny. While we're experts at racing Trans Baviaans, and we know what we need to do, it's still a long way where a lot can go wrong and often does, with spectacular results. A mumbled race briefing later and we were off, safely tucked away in the lead bunch, waiting for all hell to break loose.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-sUxgG7_tjyM/WZXUtYecYOI/AAAAAAAA9So/LbW2AjVvdS8035tdBoimfBUCRUahNzTeACKgBGAs/s1600/IMG-20170813-WA0021.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="813" data-original-width="720" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-sUxgG7_tjyM/WZXUtYecYOI/AAAAAAAA9So/LbW2AjVvdS8035tdBoimfBUCRUahNzTeACKgBGAs/s1600/IMG-20170813-WA0021.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Cowardly Penguins</td></tr></tbody></table>But it never did. Feeling like the nerds that never got an invite to the school disco, we weren't quite sure what was going on. The start is normally a runaway freight train into lactic acid hell, not this sedate cruise over the windswept plains of the Karoo. So The Cowardly Penguins took it upon themselves to right this injustice and we found ourselves setting the pace on the front, despite our intentions to "just chill" for the first 100kms. And just like that, the lead bunch was reduced to nothing more than 20 riders. The only worry being that Hector the Disconnector was number 20.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2qp8sC27gr0/WZXSqyei8JI/AAAAAAAA9SA/VnLhPC1CVjcgSVCUYH4IgkO1qI3HSaxhgCKgBGAs/s1600/IMG-20170814-WA0019.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="515" data-original-width="959" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2qp8sC27gr0/WZXSqyei8JI/AAAAAAAA9SA/VnLhPC1CVjcgSVCUYH4IgkO1qI3HSaxhgCKgBGAs/s1600/IMG-20170814-WA0019.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fond, brief memories of the bunch</td></tr></tbody></table>As we dropped into the Kloof, Captain Craig drifted off the front, freewheeling away. I wasn't too concerned, as once the road levelled out, we'd all regroup and the next 70kms would be a free ride to Checkpoint 2. Or so I thought. Hector the Ejector was in a bad bad place off the back, and the gap was just getting bigger and bigger. I tried several times to tow him and his fellow stragglers back to vanishing bunch, but it was fruitless. Never fear, I thought, Captain Craig will be here soon to offer reinforcements, but they never came. There were two choices. Leave Captain Craig and hopefully he'd realise that two-thirds of The Cowardly Penguins were no longer in the lead bunch, or go and fetch him. With my blood pressure rising and my mood darkening, I decided to ride across the gap and fetch him. For ten minutes, at threshold pace, I slowly reeled in the bunch. When I finally got on the back of the bunch I expected to see Captain Craig there, looking over his shoulder, wondering where his buddies where. But no. Looking through the bunch I finally spotted the red and black <a href="http://capecycletours.com/">Cape Cycle Tours</a> kit ON THE FRONT. Right there and then I had an emotional meltdown. Not a little wobble about ten minutes of lactic acid fuelled anger, but rather a catharsis that had been 4 years in the making dating back to our last Epic together where a similar thing had happened. Captain Craig in the bunch and me out the back. Back then we still had 4 days of Epic to go, so I chose to ignore him for the rest of the stage. Not today. Once the floodgates opened, the words just streamed out of my dust covered face, as I tried to wipe away the sweat and snot from the efforts of closing the gap. What I said is best left in the lead bunch somewhere in the Baviaans Kloof. But it had the desired effect.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gb6OgaOOD04/WZXSq3LOadI/AAAAAAAA9SA/WXOJWxOIQUIJSYHg3Lf3aNW69ExIc3ClwCKgBGAs/s1600/IMG-20170814-WA0017.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="509" data-original-width="946" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gb6OgaOOD04/WZXSq3LOadI/AAAAAAAA9SA/WXOJWxOIQUIJSYHg3Lf3aNW69ExIc3ClwCKgBGAs/s1600/IMG-20170814-WA0017.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hector the Almost Disconnector, hanging on the back</td></tr></tbody></table>We dropped out of the lead group to a couple of chuckles and a few odd looks, waiting for Hector the Defector. Our hope being that this was just a temporary dip in form. As the kilometres increased, our speed decreased and any aspirations we had of doing well slowly evaporated as other teams trickled past us. There is no worse feeling than being passed by people that shouldn't be passing you, and nothing harder than having to restrain the desire to race them. But we entered as a team, and we were going to finish as a team, even if that meant carrying Hector the Objector on our backs.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8krXqcukaV8/WZXSq33H_mI/AAAAAAAA9SA/93OY1p7u5YAUc3kWfCMLr04U9AdLFb_oQCKgBGAs/s1600/IMG-20170814-WA0020.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="507" data-original-width="942" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8krXqcukaV8/WZXSq33H_mI/AAAAAAAA9SA/93OY1p7u5YAUc3kWfCMLr04U9AdLFb_oQCKgBGAs/s1600/IMG-20170814-WA0020.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Captain Craig off the front</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hlbgDwljlC0/WZXSq33QNqI/AAAAAAAA9SA/MUMM129NRiEx4hHowGy3UHCowLFHdBxcgCKgBGAs/s1600/IMG-20170814-WA0016.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="663" data-original-width="1205" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hlbgDwljlC0/WZXSq33QNqI/AAAAAAAA9SA/MUMM129NRiEx4hHowGy3UHCowLFHdBxcgCKgBGAs/s1600/IMG-20170814-WA0016.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Captain Craig driving the pace</td></tr></tbody></table>The Baviaans Kloof is a very different place when you're not engulfed in a lactic acid haze. It is truly breathtaking. And the local people are the epitome of what makes this country so great. Friendly smiles, chants of "Hou bene hou" and high fives that can lift even the darkest of moods and remind us about the good things in our land. But I doubt Hector the Introspector saw any of this. His descent into misery was visible for all to see, and we still had 130 kilometres to go.<br /><br />With the reduced pace that we found ourselves cruising along at, I was confident I could indulge in some of the wares on offer at the checkpoints without the risk of my customary Bergplaas vomit. A little hesitant at first, I tried one or two milkshakes, some sour jelly snakes, a couple of marshmallows and some jelly babies. And that was just Checkpoint 2. At Checkpoint 3 I had some more milkshakes, trying out some of the other flavours, and a potato. Living on the wild side! And my stomach was solid! Well, not entirely solid. It's probably worth mentioning that you don't really want to ride behind a team that had cabbage with their dinner the night before.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-DHL7LBwssKk/WZXSq6088yI/AAAAAAAA9SA/7CUm0_503XgyzfIMMYv0K9PKMJICMEi8QCKgBGAs/s1600/20785876_10155458432301425_4543884367976975542_o.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-DHL7LBwssKk/WZXSq6088yI/AAAAAAAA9SA/7CUm0_503XgyzfIMMYv0K9PKMJICMEi8QCKgBGAs/s1600/20785876_10155458432301425_4543884367976975542_o.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Where have you been my whole life??</td></tr></tbody></table>The hardest part of Trans Baviaans lay ahead of us as Hector the Reflector retreated further into his own world of woe, and we never heard another word from him for the next 7 hours. Grunts and groans were his preferred means of communication. That's if we got a response at all. While it's pretty kak to be the guy in a world of pain, we've all been there. We know and fear that feeling and use it as motivation on our training rides. As they say, you don't have to be the fastest in the team, you just have to be faster than the slowest guy.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xOsdxR-7wO0/WZXSq55rVjI/AAAAAAAA9SA/ufUqLs5QjsY2nHNXiIMFEIJsea5q0oczACKgBGAs/s1600/IMG-20170813-WA0010.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xOsdxR-7wO0/WZXSq55rVjI/AAAAAAAA9SA/ufUqLs5QjsY2nHNXiIMFEIJsea5q0oczACKgBGAs/s1600/IMG-20170813-WA0010.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The wheels had literally fallen off!</td></tr></tbody></table>We rolled into Checkpoint 4 with the sun hanging low in the sky. I continued with my new found love affair with the food on offer, gulping down two milkshakes before collecting soup and sandwiches for the rest of the team. In previous years, this soup has saved my life. I have no idea what's in it, but I wouldn't be surprised if it contains unicorn tears, angel dust and the sweat of a thousand minotaurs. A true elixir of life. With our stomachs full and our mood slightly lifted we set off for Checkpoint 5, and our first stop with our patiently waiting backup (we'd told him we'd be there at around 5pm - we were only leaving Checkpoint 4 at 5pm).<br /><br />Uphills weren't the only place where Hector the Pink Drink Detector was slow. He'd lost all ability to ride down hills too. When you're in a world of pain, nothing works! Not your legs, not your mouth, not your brain. And no amount of encouragement or coaxing will have any effect. It's the mind against the body, and often, the mind is hanging on by the most tedious of threads. With that in mind, we threatened Hector the Funeral Director with all sorts of physical violence if he even as much as thought about climbing into the car. We hadn't come this far to not finish as a team. One for all and all that stuff!<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-p-drEdkDvOY/WZXSq-hu89I/AAAAAAAA9SA/EfjK18V41MgZdSHG9TRQnbNkmWo9FxNfgCKgBGAs/s1600/IMG-20170814-WA0000.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-p-drEdkDvOY/WZXSq-hu89I/AAAAAAAA9SA/EfjK18V41MgZdSHG9TRQnbNkmWo9FxNfgCKgBGAs/s1600/IMG-20170814-WA0000.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hector the&nbsp;Conscientious Objector's new favourite gel</td></tr></tbody></table>And then something magical happened. The leg faeries paid Hector the Conscientious Objector a visit just in time for the NeverEnder. Whether it was the special green gel that Gavin provided or the motivational talk he gave ("Get on your bloody bike and get the hell out of here"), we left that checkpoint at a rate of knots we hadn't seen for many hours. And it lasted. All the way up the climb. We even passed a team, the first time in 8 hours that we were doing the passing.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-D1qaxe0EdSo/WZXTr7patdI/AAAAAAAA9SQ/1Obz0ZSbQn03T3KoEP-rc1wTn4G6kXfsgCKgBGAs/s1600/IMG_2089.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-D1qaxe0EdSo/WZXTr7patdI/AAAAAAAA9SQ/1Obz0ZSbQn03T3KoEP-rc1wTn4G6kXfsgCKgBGAs/s1600/IMG_2089.JPG" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">JBay just around the corner!</td></tr></tbody></table>The sparkle of lights in Jeffreys Bay grew brighter as Hector the Rhino Protector dug deep one last time, lured by the promise of cold beer and tasty burgers. We crossed the line 11h10, in 48th place, but that wasn't important. We'd crossed the line as a team, despite several obstacles along the way, and that's the real beauty of this sport. Racing is great, but nursing a wounded mate to the finish is almost as rewarding.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HKIUm-LLxig/WZXTr3SA4nI/AAAAAAAA9SQ/GqtMC5sKrvYZ3spjlp84s9Hn_U8QN0NfwCKgBGAs/s1600/IMG_2087.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="544" data-original-width="513" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HKIUm-LLxig/WZXTr3SA4nI/AAAAAAAA9SQ/GqtMC5sKrvYZ3spjlp84s9Hn_U8QN0NfwCKgBGAs/s1600/IMG_2087.JPG" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Trans Baviaans #14 done</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><br />*While riding, I had an epiphany. And I gave it a name. The Hector Conjecture. If you suspect someone of secret training, chances are they probably aren't doing secret training. ;)</div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/VeloTales/~4/W5knYXX3PyQ" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Velouriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06667777448042670759noreply@blogger.com1http://www.velotales.com/2017/08/trans-baviaans-2017.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5990819476840975001.post-44213189657654190992017-04-26T08:26:00.002+02:002018-04-13T18:44:53.624+02:00The 36One 2017<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">What is it about the 36One that makes this race so unique? In the four short years that Captain Craig and I have been doing it, the event has grown from a handful of endurance freaks eager for their next big challenge, to a gathering of some of the toughest, and probably craziest, bike riders in South Africa.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QBoFkeEm6J4/WP9Z8iTd4mI/AAAAAAAA4T0/PlB-rf9hSjw-CvI2SinXJEuf37QuHAiCACPcB/s1600/18121582_1099221686888443_4971233394423821535_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QBoFkeEm6J4/WP9Z8iTd4mI/AAAAAAAA4T0/PlB-rf9hSjw-CvI2SinXJEuf37QuHAiCACPcB/s1600/18121582_1099221686888443_4971233394423821535_o.jpg" width="540" /></a></div><br /><br />While a lot has changed over the years - the event just gets slicker and better organised, the riders get faster and fitter, and the race tactics are refined, one thing has always stayed constant. The first words that I mumble as we haul our tired and aching bodies across the finish line - "Never ever again!". And yet we've been back three times.<br /><br />The 36One is one of those events that you enter, and then try to forget about completely. Any prolonged thought on the scale and difficulty of this ride is enough to drive one crazy, although the mere act of just entering is probably a sign that the craziness was a preexisting condition. But try as you might, The 36One Fear starts working its way into your subconsciousness. Without even realising it, you're thinking about date balls and ostrich sosaties, light run times and bottle hydration strategies, and before long every waking moment is consumed with anguish and mild panic, as well as a few nights where you wake up screaming, desperate to turn on the light and escape the never ending loop of riding up Rooiberg at a snail's pace.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xdp9v6vVUDs/WP9Z8sDmoNI/AAAAAAAA4T0/AJnzsS6n3oYxkvmzSgZUSqxeip-jpdN-ACPcB/s1600/18077212_1097179750425970_6150279720731351024_o%2B%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xdp9v6vVUDs/WP9Z8sDmoNI/AAAAAAAA4T0/AJnzsS6n3oYxkvmzSgZUSqxeip-jpdN-ACPcB/s1600/18077212_1097179750425970_6150279720731351024_o%2B%25281%2529.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The racing legs of Captain Craig</td></tr></tbody></table>Captain Craig and I had completely opposite buildups to this year's race. In the week leading up to race day, Captain Craig probably did more kilometres than I'd done in the entire month, thanks to a forced break due to a torn hip flexor. Mr Overdone and Mr Underdone. Not only were we on opposite ends of the fitness spectrum, but our riding styles are completely different too. It's a miracle that Captain Craig and I can actually ride together, particularly in long events like this. His preferred style is to start fast, get a gap and then manage the pace, while I prefer to keep it steady at first, and then finish with a flurry. Given all this, the hope was that at some point during the course of the race we'd briefly be in our peak operating zones together.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9dA2HxZFojQ/WP9Z8i1SRwI/AAAAAAAA4T0/hibYbSQofn0yZu60VbCx7Akhh0EQYNm0QCPcB/s1600/18055787_1097179753759303_7399125746866973160_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9dA2HxZFojQ/WP9Z8i1SRwI/AAAAAAAA4T0/hibYbSQofn0yZu60VbCx7Akhh0EQYNm0QCPcB/s1600/18055787_1097179753759303_7399125746866973160_o.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mr Southpaw</td></tr></tbody></table>The organisers had switched the starts around this year, with the solo adventurers starting before the teams. I quite liked this as it meant Captain Craig wouldn't be tempted to keep pace with the race snakes, and it also meant that we had 542 targets ahead of us to keep us motivated. Little flashing red lights of temptation. The first half an hour of racing was a bit of a peacock parade by all the teams, like body builders flexing their muscles to show their strength. The Purple Paper Pandas (I really just wanted to hear Carel, the ultra endurance MC, get tongue twisted over that name), played along, Captain Craig setting a beautiful pace on the front, while I sussed out the small group of contenders from the back, looking for signs of weakness. Small things like slightly laboured breathing, or taking a second or two to close a gap. Mr Good Guy and Mr Unfriendly.<br /><br />As we left the tar and hit the climbs we found ourselves alone out front. It's always great to be in front - you're in charge of the pace, your destiny is in your own hands. But at the same time it can be a little daunting as the self doubt creeps in. Are we going too fast, too early? Can we conserve energy by riding in a group? What if they gang up on us and work together? Always a trade off for everything.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EOFMjo_IAzg/WP9itEfyhGI/AAAAAAAA4Uk/zk57k4AfZZ4WlY9X9vUw9Si7zE_LjNL7wCPcB/s1600/WhatsApp%2BImage%2B2017-04-22%2Bat%2B18.58.53.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EOFMjo_IAzg/WP9itEfyhGI/AAAAAAAA4Uk/zk57k4AfZZ4WlY9X9vUw9Si7zE_LjNL7wCPcB/s1600/WhatsApp%2BImage%2B2017-04-22%2Bat%2B18.58.53.jpeg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sneaky photobombers</td></tr></tbody></table>We quickly slotted into our usual formation, me on the front with Captain Craig on my wheel. I never know how to feel about this. Is Craig being complimentary and letting me set the pace? Is he being selfish while he sits on my wheel as I set the pace? Am I stronger than him, or is he stronger than me? It doesn't help that one of the overriding rules we were taught about team riding is that you go at the slowest person's pace. Am I slow? If so, how slow? And should I be going faster? With this internal debate raging in my head the kilometres roll on by, and my mind is distracted from the pain and suffering.<br /><br />It doesn't help that Captain Craig and I try to pass the time with witty banter or profound conversation either. We both have hearing issues. Captain Craig is going deaf, and I am blessed with rather large ears that tend to catch a lot of wind noise, so any conversation between us usually goes like this:<br /><br /><blockquote class="tr_bq">"Did you see that tortoise up ahead?"<br />"Huh"<br />"DID YOU SEE THAT TORTOISE UP AHEAD?"<br />"Yes, I think they should escort us off to bed"<br />"It looked like it was sleeping"<br />"I feel sleepy too"<br />"What?"<br />"I FEEL SLEEPY!"<br />"Me too"</blockquote>So riding in single file is what we do. Mr Deaf and Mr Wind Noise.<br /><br />The old saying "Go slow to go fast" certainly rings true, and despite riding rather conservatively, we hit the first checkpoint in good time. For the first time in years I didn't have snot dripping from face, blood oozing from my ears and tears in my eyes. I almost felt normal. A quick snack, some fluids and some chain lube and we were back on the road, the longest stage ahead of us.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Ll2O4dZJQGU/WP9Z8nqyEAI/AAAAAAAA4T0/psqQsswM3tgXYn6dFY7iavv6b2Lis76zACPcB/s1600/17991751_1099227346887877_6150623344382871268_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Ll2O4dZJQGU/WP9Z8nqyEAI/AAAAAAAA4T0/psqQsswM3tgXYn6dFY7iavv6b2Lis76zACPcB/s1600/17991751_1099227346887877_6150623344382871268_o.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking after the bike is as important as looking afer the body</td></tr></tbody></table>Back on the road the flashing red lights ahead of us were few and far between, and those riders that we did catch and pass were often rather eager to join the Dane and Craig Express. Which we weren't going to allow! So our race tactics became rather predatory - we'd silently stalk the red flashing lights with our own bike lights on dim, with the aim to pass the unsuspecting victim at the bottom of a slight hill. We'd hit the bottom of the rise with speed, and try to power our way over the bump, aware that if we went too hard we'd be paying for the effort in several hours' time, and that if we didn't hit it fast enough, we'd have a wheel sucking solo rider for company.<br />All this catching and passing sounds like riveting action adventure stuff. It wasn't. These cat and mouse, or as I prefer, lion and impala confrontations could take the better part of an hour to unfold. Racing in slow motion!<br /><blockquote align="center" class="twitter-tweet" data-lang="en"><div dir="ltr" lang="en">There will be many liters of <a href="https://twitter.com/Squirtlube_SA">@Squirtlube_SA</a> used over the next 24 hours! <a href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/The36ONE?src=hash">#The36ONE</a> <a href="https://t.co/KyUylKz1qa">pic.twitter.com/KyUylKz1qa</a></div>— 36ONE MTB Challenge (@The36ONE) <a href="https://twitter.com/The36ONE/status/855528968677675008">April 21, 2017</a></blockquote><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script> <br />We rolled into the halfway checkpoint well up on last year's time, and got down to preparing things for the toughest slog of the race. For Captain Craig, that meant a light change. In the time it takes him to remove the old light and attach the new light, I'm quite sure entire civilisations have risen and fallen. Our stop took so long that I actually had to relearn how to ride a bike again. And he says I am the time waster at water points! Mr Faff and Mr Speedy.<br /><br />If I have one criticism about The 36One, it's got to be the water points. It's really not fair on endurance athletes to have to make decisions about which of the tasty food they are going to eat. Porridge brain is a real problem, and too much choice, from banana bread to biltong, lasagne to koeksisters can be race ending. I've seen cyclists lost in thought, staring at the food tables for hours, suffering from food decision paralysis. Whatever happened to those days of expired energy bars and water in cups the size of thimbles?<br /><blockquote align="center" class="twitter-tweet" data-lang="en"><div dir="ltr" lang="en">Lasagne is on the late night dinner menu at Thylitshia Villa, home made by Oudtshoorn's domestic goddess <a href="https://twitter.com/ReneRademeyer">@ReneRademeyer</a>. <a href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/The36ONE?src=hash">#The36ONE</a> <a href="https://t.co/voS8ueZFDo">pic.twitter.com/voS8ueZFDo</a></div>— 36ONE MTB Challenge (@The36ONE) <a href="https://twitter.com/The36ONE/status/855544428307644420">April 21, 2017</a></blockquote><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script> With Captain Craig finally rejoining the race, we set off to conquer the witching hour demons. The uphills were getting longer, our legs were getting heavier, and our progress through the red flashing lights had come to a halt. Just Captain Craig and I in the middle of nowhere, with a thin waning crescent moon for company. And the odd marshal - the real unsung heroes who make this race possible.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KZSXrY-Zp-o/WP9hNOa4X_I/AAAAAAAA4UQ/xHRdcqIbVsUNvF9Spza_t4nzsDwXHktbgCPcB/s1600/17990295_1099229463554332_1173281030706196584_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KZSXrY-Zp-o/WP9hNOa4X_I/AAAAAAAA4UQ/xHRdcqIbVsUNvF9Spza_t4nzsDwXHktbgCPcB/s1600/17990295_1099229463554332_1173281030706196584_o.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Often, our only companion</td></tr></tbody></table>In a race like this you are always going to have good patches and bad patches. The hope is that the good patches last a long long time, while the bad patches are brief. And the switch from a good patch to a bad one can happen in the blink of an eye. One minute you're feeling invincible, and the next you're desperately sucking on a gel, making silent pleas for the pain to end! Add in the team dynamic and you can be guaranteed that good and bad patches will never be synchronised.<br /><br />We hit the bottom of Rooiberg, the big climb, not quite knowing what was going to happen. The benefit of riding a little faster is that we get to do this climb in the dark - never able to see the top. However, that's a double edged sword, as often it's only the thought of the top that keeps you going. As the road tilted up, the memories from previous years came flooding back. The year Captain Craig rode me into the ground. The year we took the lead in the team category just before the top (and didn't even know it). The year we passed The Beast as he walked up the climb, a shattered hulk of a man. Anything could happen on the slopes of this invisible monster, and it often does.<br /><br />The Purple Paper Pandas suffered up the climb, as I am sure every other participant did too. An eight kilometre climb after 250 kilometres is always going to hurt. But we made good progress, and as we crested the summit, the lights of Calitzdorp glistening in the distance. We'd broken the back of The 36One before it had broken us, although I came close to running on empty. With a flick of the arm, Captain Craig hit the front and dragged my sorry frame into the third check point, and the oasis of snacks that awaited us. Mr Strong and Mr I Should Have Eaten More.<br /><blockquote align="center" class="twitter-tweet" data-lang="en"><div dir="ltr" lang="en">What's on the menu in Calitzdorp? <a href="https://twitter.com/KKI_OstrichMeat">@KKI_OstrichMeat</a> sosaties, roosterkoek &amp; a blazing fire to warm cold bodies. <a href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/The36ONE?src=hash">#The36ONE</a> <a href="https://t.co/KHVc9rCBwQ">pic.twitter.com/KHVc9rCBwQ</a></div>— 36ONE MTB Challenge (@The36ONE) <a href="https://twitter.com/The36ONE/status/855604394481659904">April 22, 2017</a></blockquote><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script> Once again, getting Captain Craig to leave the sanctuary of the check point proved to be rather tricky. He'd just discovered the koeksisters, and was intent making up for all those he'd missed in the previous 12 hours. And then he caught sight of the pancakes. And just to prove that he wasn't happy with the level of conversation so far on our ride, he struck up a conversation while I patiently waited to get rolling again. He clearly needed the mental stimulation, so I was prepared to give him a minute or two, provided he paid me back later.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2TlNkBMZLNM/WQA94AaEFJI/AAAAAAAA4Wo/DdvaNDA_4-4YmzzCy70ons9TxZOjclCRgCPcB/s1600/18121299_1101193423357936_2962245032118535519_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2TlNkBMZLNM/WQA94AaEFJI/AAAAAAAA4Wo/DdvaNDA_4-4YmzzCy70ons9TxZOjclCRgCPcB/s1600/18121299_1101193423357936_2962245032118535519_o.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That welcoming CBC beer!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br />The final stage is the most beautiful, for one simple reason. It's the only stage that we actually get to see beyond the small puddle of light in front of us. And the Klein Karoo is a rather pretty place. It's also the final grind towards the finish, the end of the torment and the welcoming promise of an ice cold CBC beer. No wonder I tend to suffer from long range white line fever at this race! But it's not all plain sailing. The hills are merciless in their gradient, and vicious in length, especially on tired legs. From the top of the final climb to the finish is around 35 kilometres, and this is where I am in my element. Time for Captain Craig to pay me back, which means hopping aboard the Dane Train, and holding on tight. Next stop Oudtshoorn. Mr Caboose and Mr Engine.<br /><blockquote align="center" class="twitter-tweet" data-lang="en"><div dir="ltr" lang="en">.<a href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/The36ONE?src=hash">#The36ONE</a> Podium - 36ONE Teams:<br />1. Purple Paper Pandas 16:23:01<br />2. Team Polar 16:52:03<br />3. Restonic 1 19:04:05 <a href="https://t.co/9mM9qt8bMY">pic.twitter.com/9mM9qt8bMY</a></div>— 36ONE MTB Challenge (@The36ONE) <a href="https://twitter.com/The36ONE/status/856051653212033024">April 23, 2017</a></blockquote><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script></div>With the temperatures rising we whittled off the final kilometres, pushing our bodies to the limits one last time, not motivated by times or placings. Just wanting the ordeal to be over. Everything hurts. As we haul our tired and aching bodies across the line, the first words that escape my mouth once again are "Never ever again!". And this time we're serious. I promise.<br /><br /><blockquote align="center" class="twitter-tweet" data-lang="en"><div dir="ltr" lang="en">Almost an uneventful ride for <a href="https://twitter.com/captaincraigSA">@captaincraigSA</a> &amp; <a href="https://twitter.com/velotales">@velotales</a> this year. But again they swear it's their last, but we've heard that before. <a href="https://t.co/roBdCa75x2">pic.twitter.com/roBdCa75x2</a></div>— 36ONE MTB Challenge (@The36ONE) <a href="https://twitter.com/The36ONE/status/855705413907619840">April 22, 2017</a></blockquote><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/VeloTales/~4/XfBqfN7ReUw" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Velouriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06667777448042670759noreply@blogger.com0http://www.velotales.com/2017/04/the-36one-2017.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5990819476840975001.post-52910040149549904092017-02-21T10:31:00.001+02:002017-02-21T11:07:21.779+02:00The Big Day Out 2017<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Four years ago, after a rather dismal showing at a 24hr race, the idea for <a href="http://www.velotales.com/2014/03/2014-big-day-out.html">The Big Day Out</a> was born. Inspired by a <a href="https://cyclingtips.com/2014/02/cam-and-richies-excellent-adventure/">birthday ride</a>&nbsp;that Richie Porte and Cameron Wurf did, we wanted to do something just as memorable. As is usually the case, the other half of the "we" was my trusty co-accomplice - the "always up for a bike ride" Captain Craig. Our objective that day was to ride further than we'd ever gone before on a single bike ride. And that meant 361 kilometres.<br /> <iframe align="center" height='405' width='590' frameborder='0' allowtransparency='true' scrolling='no' src='https://www.strava.com/activities/867651169/embed/aaa5220c8fa8af5d753c861b3d8bbd901ae8c629'></iframe><br />We failed. On the road from Malmesbury to Durbanville our plans fell apart as we wilted in the heat and persistent head wind, and with empty bottles we were forced to take a shortcut. While we still rode 335 kilometres in temperatures fit for cooking turkeys, we knew we'd be doing this again.<br /><br />The following year was even less successful, with a broken derailleur scuppering our plans at just 200 kilometres. In the meantime, we'd undertaken a few new races, and 361 kilometres was no longer good enough to achieve our initial objective. We needed to go further. And we needed additional reinforcements. Enter the ominously named Halfway Robertson - another sucker who just loves to ride bikes.<br /><br />In <a href="http://www.velotales.com/2016/02/the-big-day-out-2016.html">2016</a>, we finally achieved our goal - 369kms in a little over 14 hours of bike riding. It was hot. It was windy. It truly was a Big Day Out. As elated as our little trio was, at the back of our minds we knew that somehow we'd have to raise bar for The Big Day Out 2017.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-JPEHGB5WE5w/WKfz8Yp6Y9I/AAAAAAAA2Ps/vuXe5lQzOtIBwSELnvXUlHwzAg_UkUR9ACPcB/s1600/IMG_20170215_045054.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-JPEHGB5WE5w/WKfz8Yp6Y9I/AAAAAAAA2Ps/vuXe5lQzOtIBwSELnvXUlHwzAg_UkUR9ACPcB/s1600/IMG_20170215_045054.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I felt somewhat under prepared</td></tr></tbody></table>For a ride that started out as an ad hoc adventure, it's become a rather serious endeavour. There is a committee, a constitution, and various rules and guidelines about what constitutes a Big Day Out (our reference is always Ritchie Porte's Birthday Ride). Planning starts several months before, with talk of new route ideas, new inductees, and new challenges. And for 2017, we were going to back to our roots. We were going to attempt to emulate Porte and Wurf - 400kms in a single day.<br /><br />With the route settled on, all we needed was the perfect day for riding bikes. And this is where members of the committee differ in their interpretation of the word "perfect". &nbsp;Captain Craig and Halfway Robertson would prefer a cool, windless day, possibly with a few clouds in the sky, and an afternoon breeze (obviously a tailwind) that picks up as the legs start to fatigue. On the other hand, I like it hot and windless. The hotter the better. And as the Big Day Out Benevolent Dictator for Life, I get my way.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-upWJJY56rTk/WKfz8RHGLrI/AAAAAAAA2Ps/k77ogneuw2ADCkcV-zEJunRCy565b9K2QCPcB/s1600/IMG_20170215_063941.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-upWJJY56rTk/WKfz8RHGLrI/AAAAAAAA2Ps/k77ogneuw2ADCkcV-zEJunRCy565b9K2QCPcB/s1600/IMG_20170215_063941.jpg" width="540" /></a></div><br />Our day started at 5am in the cool dark air of the Southern suburbs of Cape Town - nervousness and trepidation lurking at the back of our minds about the challenges that lay before us. Our first obstacle - to safely navigate the infamous bike lane and get out of the city in one piece. And almost as if Murphy was watching us, right at the most dangerous section of the bike lane, I punctured. Just 12 kilometres into our adventure. While I sorted out the puncture, my companions, armed with bicycle pumps and multi-tools, stood guard, suspicious of all passersby! Thankfully, it wasn't long before we were on the road again, all our limbs and possessions intact. <br /><blockquote align="center" class="twitter-tweet" data-lang="en"><div dir="ltr" lang="en">Sunrise on <a href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/BigDayOut?src=hash">#BigDayOut</a>. 10% or 40 kms done <a href="https://t.co/LGvaWAQbPx">pic.twitter.com/LGvaWAQbPx</a></div>— Dane Walsh (@velotales) <a href="https://twitter.com/velotales/status/831725467484962816">February 15, 2017</a></blockquote><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script> The first challenge of the day was not a physical one, but rather a mental test. It's been said that a surefire way to crack even the toughest of minds is to have them ride up the West Coast road. Career criminals have been known to succumb, melting into quivering wrecks still within sight of Koeberg nuclear power station. But this didn't deter us as we fought the monotony and boredom of the West Coast road, slowly inching towards Yzerfontein. Our determination resolute. Just as our spirits were starting flag, and conversation had deteriorated into a series of grunts and groans, the turn off to Darling appeared. <br /><br />And with the change in direction turn came some hills. And some turns. And almost immediately our mood picked up. Conversation started to flow again, the legs had some new found energy, and our bums sighed in relief. Before long, Darling rolled into sight and had our first of many refreshment stops for the day. A quarter of the ride done - a measly 100 kilometres.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-251GzdRg4vs/WKfz8Zq1ipI/AAAAAAAA2Ps/uSdhbZafIFQGoh5PVdst7H_Ska6gI9U2QCPcB/s1600/IMG_20170215_091304.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-251GzdRg4vs/WKfz8Zq1ipI/AAAAAAAA2Ps/uSdhbZafIFQGoh5PVdst7H_Ska6gI9U2QCPcB/s1600/IMG_20170215_091304.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The open road</td></tr></tbody></table>Back on the road we set our sights on our next milestone - brunch at Riebeek Kasteel. By now the honeymoon phase of the ride was over. The witty banter had dried up, we were freewheeling the downhills, and our only focus was to knock off the kilometres, one by one. We'd been a bit sneaky with the route planning - avoiding any and all hills for the first quarter, but that was about to change. The first of many passes awaited us - Bothmanskloof Pass. This is not an iconic pass, and particularly from the side that we were riding it from there was nothing spectacular about it, except the the road went up. And as the road went up, so did the temperature, hitting the low 30s - an ominous sign given that it was just 10:30am. We crested the climb in no time and coasted into town, brunch awaiting.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FM8a9kLJUaQ/WKfz8Y9cQ1I/AAAAAAAA2Ps/X7TEGlfGsEg92kVkwAoI8Hy2sqqiKEYdgCPcB/s1600/IMG_20170215_110406.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FM8a9kLJUaQ/WKfz8Y9cQ1I/AAAAAAAA2Ps/X7TEGlfGsEg92kVkwAoI8Hy2sqqiKEYdgCPcB/s1600/IMG_20170215_110406.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Babalas burger</td></tr></tbody></table>The Babalas burger in Riebeek Kasteel hit the spot, restoring not only our energy levels, but our mojo too. No matter which way you looked at it - 240 kilometres to go was still a sizeable challenge. With a slight bit of reluctance we remounted our steeds, and set off for our next objective - Wellington. Our last leg before the real challenges of the day began. <br /><blockquote align="center" class="twitter-tweet" data-lang="en"><div dir="ltr" lang="en">Brunch at Riebeek-Kasteel 160kms in. <a href="https://twitter.com/captaincraigSA">@captaincraigSA</a> and <a href="https://twitter.com/warrenrobertson">@warrenrobertson</a> still talking to each other ;) <a href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/BigDayOut?src=hash">#BigDayOut</a>. <a href="https://t.co/fcCba3Wt15">pic.twitter.com/fcCba3Wt15</a></div>— Dane Walsh (@velotales) <a href="https://twitter.com/velotales/status/831790110890921984">February 15, 2017</a></blockquote><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script> By now, the body was running on autopilot, trying to be as efficient as possible. Big efforts were a thing of the past, and now it was about using as little energy and exertion as possible to propel the bike forward. A welcome tailwind came as a double edged sword - on the upside, a great way to knock off the kilometres a little bit quicker, but on the downside, both giving us a false of our strength and robbing us of a cooling breeze. <br /><br /><blockquote align="center" class="twitter-tweet" data-lang="en"><div dir="ltr" lang="en">Wellington, and temperatures ate rising. It's almost as hot as the flames on our <a href="https://twitter.com/HotChillee">@HotChillee</a> kit. <a href="https://twitter.com/warrenrobertson">@warrenrobertson</a> <a href="https://twitter.com/captaincraigSA">@captaincraigSA</a> <a href="https://t.co/hy0qDv4TtK">pic.twitter.com/hy0qDv4TtK</a></div>— Dane Walsh (@velotales) <a href="https://twitter.com/velotales/status/831814936724639746">February 15, 2017</a></blockquote><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script>As we gulped down ice cold cokes in Wellington, our core temperatures dropping slightly, and our energy supplies returning to more normal levels, the locals couldn't help but give us strange looks. Who were these strange creatures riding bikes in the midday sun with temperatures in the uppers thirties? Not only did we receive peculiar looks, we also got a lot of unsolicited advice, the most common being "You should really be riding early in the morning to avoid the heat". Obviously we got more peculiar looks when responding that we had in fact started at 5am, and that we were riding from Cape Town to Somerset West, the long way round. <br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wN3qDdEH2rA/WKfz8RIT50I/AAAAAAAA2Ps/7bCIBoSDLU8nJ92PwM2g0mxeouG3hl-kwCPcB/s1600/IMG_20170215_131633.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wN3qDdEH2rA/WKfz8RIT50I/AAAAAAAA2Ps/7bCIBoSDLU8nJ92PwM2g0mxeouG3hl-kwCPcB/s1600/IMG_20170215_131633.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hot hot hot</td></tr></tbody></table>The halfway mark of our adventure was Bainskloof Pass, a magnificent 12 kilometre climb on twisty winding roads. The countryside looked like a moonscape due to several recent fires, and to add the the other worldly feeling, the temperatures were peaking in the lower forties. We inched our way up the climb, passing baboons chilling in the shade that knew better than to venture out into the midday sun. And yet, there we were, slowly but surely climbing the hill, shirts open wide, looking for anything to cool us down. Although we didn't mention it at the time, I don't think the irony was wasted on us when Halfway Robertson started showing signs of weakness near the halfway mark. Thankfully, help was at hand in the form of a welcome mountain stream. Something primal overcame Warren, as his gaze locked onto the stream and it's enticing waters. In a single fluid movement, he parked his bike, removed his shirt and cleared a barrier wall, before making a beeline towards a mini waterfall. Sitting in a pool, with water gushing over his head, it was probably the most content I have ever seen him. I am quite surprised that we managed to somehow coax him out and back onto his bike! <br /><blockquote align="center" class="twitter-tweet" data-lang="en"><div dir="ltr" lang="en">When the going gets tough, <a href="https://twitter.com/warrenrobertson">@warrenrobertson</a> goes swimming. <a href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/BigDayOut?src=hash">#BigDayOut</a>. <a href="https://t.co/ltFC3nAxR2">pic.twitter.com/ltFC3nAxR2</a></div>— Dane Walsh (@velotales) <a href="https://twitter.com/velotales/status/831857412852297730">February 15, 2017</a></blockquote><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script> <br /><div>Captain Craig might have been struggling on the climbs, but put a piece of twisty downhill in front of him and he's off like a fat kid on a waterslide - nothing can stop him! As we watched him disappear in the distance, Halfway and I did our best to not keep him waiting at the bottom for too long. A quick refill of bottles and it was back into the routine of knocking of the kilometres. We might have been over halfway, but we still had a long long way to go.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZipaUxDItNU/WKfz8d8JIzI/AAAAAAAA2Ps/joycRqA164c1IOUOk0GFgufOS3uYVsAlgCPcB/s1600/IMG_20170215_131614.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZipaUxDItNU/WKfz8d8JIzI/AAAAAAAA2Ps/joycRqA164c1IOUOk0GFgufOS3uYVsAlgCPcB/s1600/IMG_20170215_131614.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Even the locals thought we were mad</td></tr></tbody></table>Instead of heading straight to Worcester and Rawsonville, we took a detour through the Slanghoek Valley, because, believe it or not, it's not that easy to find 400 kilometres of rideable, safe roads in the Western Cape, without doing some silly loops and diversions. The downside of this particular detour was two-fold. The first being the infamous Slanghoek climb. While not a long hill, it is a testing hill, and that's on fresh legs. After 9h30 in the saddle it's just another straw on the camel's back. The second downside was purely mental. The roads were covered in sticky grape juice from the recent harvest. Picture riding in treacle. This was too much for Halfway who crumbled like a house of cards on a windy day, convinced his bike, or his legs had given up the ghost, and he was doomed to spend the remainder of his life in the Slanghoek Valley.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-W8hd9WnagDw/WKfz8RebUtI/AAAAAAAA2Ps/BedHDLUFbHg5TY-vSzUR3frtX7VC3VI3gCPcB/s1600/IMG_20170215_144659.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-W8hd9WnagDw/WKfz8RebUtI/AAAAAAAA2Ps/BedHDLUFbHg5TY-vSzUR3frtX7VC3VI3gCPcB/s1600/IMG_20170215_144659.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Must. Keep. Pedalling.</td></tr></tbody></table>After picking up the shattered pieces of Halfway's psyche, we limped into Rawsonville and our designated lunch stop for the day, the gourmet establishment called Nikki's Take Away. In the year since our previous visit, the menu had been massively expanded and so we settled on the newly added Miss Piggy burger. If regret was a taste, I now know what it would taste like. And I tasted that regret for the remainder of the Big Day Out.<br /><blockquote align="center" class="twitter-tweet" data-lang="en"><div dir="ltr" lang="en">Lunch stop after 250kms in Rawsonville. Miss Piggy burgers all round! <a href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/BigDayOut?src=hash">#BigDayOut</a>. <a href="https://twitter.com/captaincraigSA">@captaincraigSA</a> <a href="https://twitter.com/warrenrobertson">@warrenrobertson</a> <a href="https://t.co/bgMNGNsFtx">pic.twitter.com/bgMNGNsFtx</a></div>— Dane Walsh (@velotales) <a href="https://twitter.com/velotales/status/831858072062742530">February 15, 2017</a></blockquote><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script> With the Miss Piggy burger sitting uncomfortably in our bellies, we set of for Villiersdorp, and the toughest leg of the whole ride. The memories from Big Day Out 2016 still haunted us, and while we secretly hoped that we were a year older, a year wiser, and a year fitter, we feared the worst. And rightly so. As we turned the corner behind the Brandvlei dam we were greeted with a searing headwind. And for the second time that day Halfway cracked. Partly due to the heat. Partly due to the Miss Piggy burger. Partly due to the the very nature of the Big Day Out. We all took a moment to gather ourselves as Captain Craig did his best rendition of a pep talk. Some promises were made. Some lies were told. Anything to keep us going.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-B0ZpNII6dn0/WKfz8aVpn3I/AAAAAAAA2Ps/SHRQHWdokkEunsH_ptv4j-ot7acwGT7jwCPcB/s1600/IMG_20170215_185437.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-B0ZpNII6dn0/WKfz8aVpn3I/AAAAAAAA2Ps/SHRQHWdokkEunsH_ptv4j-ot7acwGT7jwCPcB/s1600/IMG_20170215_185437.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Make it stop</td></tr></tbody></table>Fortunately, we knew about a hidden oasis from last year's adventure. There are no loungers, no chilled beverages. Just a tap under some oak trees. But at 6pm on this particular Wednesday evening, with temperatures still in the mid thirties, it was all we needed. While not quite the waterfall from earlier, it didn't stop Halfway from pulling a similar move as he submerged himself under the flowing water once again. We took our time at this unofficial stop, refilling bottles, replenishing the energy levels, and trying our best to "keep our shit" together. Twenty kilometres to Villiersdorp, with the Elandskloof Pass standing between us and our next stop. This is what the Big Day Out had come to, a series of 20 kilometre slogs, and we had just 5 more to go.<br /><blockquote align="center" class="twitter-tweet" data-lang="en"><div dir="ltr" lang="en"><a href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/BigDayOut?src=hash">#BigDayOut</a> and we're in Villiersdorp. 318kms done. <a href="https://twitter.com/captaincraigSA">@captaincraigSA</a>, <a href="https://twitter.com/warrenrobertson">@warrenrobertson</a> and I taking turns to visit some very dark places. <a href="https://t.co/sLMIKf4u2t">pic.twitter.com/sLMIKf4u2t</a></div>— Dane Walsh (@velotales) <a href="https://twitter.com/velotales/status/831908862450102272">February 15, 2017</a></blockquote><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script> As the sun started dipping low in the sky, the temperatures finally dropped below 30C for the first time in ages, and the mood started to improve. We were still tired, and our bums and legs still ached, but the setting sun marked a new beginning. The next chapter in our Big Day Out story. The wind abated, the light softened, and our minds cleared. For the first time that long long day the end was almost in sight. Just a short 80 kilometres to go.<br /><blockquote align="center" class="twitter-tweet" data-lang="en"><div dir="ltr" lang="en">Team <a href="https://twitter.com/HotChillee">@HotChillee</a> looking a little worse for wear. 82kms to go. <a href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/BigDayOut?src=hash">#BigDayOut</a>. <a href="https://t.co/7k4w9YNGi8">pic.twitter.com/7k4w9YNGi8</a></div>— Dane Walsh (@velotales) <a href="https://twitter.com/velotales/status/831910126911180800">February 15, 2017</a></blockquote><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script> We hit the bottom of Franschhoek pass in the fading twilight, and a realisation hit us. This is why we do these crazy adventures. This is why we torture our bodies. This is why we ride bikes. Three guys, in the middle of nowhere, with not a car in sight, surrounded by mountains. For that minute, nothing else mattered. Pure cycling nirvana. And then reality gatecrashed our little man moment as we realised that we still had to get over the mountain in front of us.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mtFQop9MuzE/WKfz8VAKP4I/AAAAAAAA2Ps/idPp40nXuVYBBwedjr8Co4QoChXEZA2AACPcB/s1600/IMG_20170215_191236.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mtFQop9MuzE/WKfz8VAKP4I/AAAAAAAA2Ps/idPp40nXuVYBBwedjr8Co4QoChXEZA2AACPcB/s1600/IMG_20170215_191236.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Homeward bound</td></tr></tbody></table>My enduring memory of the climb, done in almost complete darkness was the smells. The unique smell of fynbos. The sweet smell of blossoming flowers. The smell of crisp clean mountain air. And occasionally a combination of Captain Craig, Halfway and myself, our deodorant having failed us a long long time ago. We eventually crested the climb, and for the second time that day Captain Craig transformed into a downhill maniac. Like a magician's assistant, he vanished. His tiny little commuter light doing little to light the way. In complete contrast, I was crawling down the hill so slowly that it felt like I was riding with one hand on the centre line, feeling for the cateyes, like a blind person reading his way down the hill.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-01c3BdwzUUs/WKfz8bsYHiI/AAAAAAAA2Ps/BiasKii291UvorYWP5TbszdMV2n_u1yAQCPcB/s1600/IMG_20170215_192218.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-01c3BdwzUUs/WKfz8bsYHiI/AAAAAAAA2Ps/BiasKii291UvorYWP5TbszdMV2n_u1yAQCPcB/s1600/IMG_20170215_192218.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mountains ahead</td></tr></tbody></table>Patiently, my fellow accomplices waited at the bottom for me, before we set off once again. With the sun well and truly set, it fell to Halfway Robertson to be our man with the light. Much like Captain Craig, Halfway has a history of light failure during epic events, and we hoped that night would be an exception. We had 60 kilometres to go, but we weren't counting in kilometres any more. We had 5 more challenges ahead of us. The soul destroying Helshoogte Pass, and then 4 bumps on the road to Somerset West.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-M7CdFiQvS0g/WKfz8VGM7iI/AAAAAAAA2Ps/gm3rMmD2MIMHKjkUvokCBQcjpMDYvPyqACPcB/s1600/IMG_20170215_192431.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-M7CdFiQvS0g/WKfz8VGM7iI/AAAAAAAA2Ps/gm3rMmD2MIMHKjkUvokCBQcjpMDYvPyqACPcB/s1600/IMG_20170215_192431.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He might be half a National Tandem Champ, but he's still a funrider.</td></tr></tbody></table>While normal people were enjoying dinner in the fine restaurants in and around Stellenbosch, we were still plodding along, one pedal stroke after another - 3 guys, out on bikes. It felt surreal. Like we were observing normal life from a distance. Removed from reality. And I'm quite sure everyone else thought the same thing about us - 3 guys, on bikes, removed from reality!<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EspZ6OsTF90/WKfz8UdaN7I/AAAAAAAA2Ps/cZ_IwY62B0MoA-C0UqWcgVKX7ecW-ar6gCPcB/s1600/IMG-20170215-WA0016.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="540" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EspZ6OsTF90/WKfz8UdaN7I/AAAAAAAA2Ps/cZ_IwY62B0MoA-C0UqWcgVKX7ecW-ar6gCPcB/s1600/IMG-20170215-WA0016.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not just signal, but we almost lost the will to live near Purgatory</td></tr></tbody></table>My wife, along with Captain Craig's, had been eagerly following our progress all day, hurrying us along when our stops got too long, and offering encouragement when things got slow. And with 20 kilometres to go, she couldn't bare the tension of watching the live tracking any longer. She bundled our son into the car and they came to find us, pulling up behind our sorry little peloton and offering a valuable backup to Halfway's light. My wife was in her element, hazards flashing, escorting 3 tired adventurers for the final part of their journey. My son didn't exactly share the sentiment, and after a quick wave hello, nodded off to sleep, bored by his father's outlandish idea of fun.<br /><blockquote align="center" class="twitter-tweet" data-lang="en"><div dir="ltr" lang="en"><a href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/BigDayOut?src=hash">#BigDayOut</a> with <a href="https://twitter.com/warrenrobertson">@warrenrobertson</a> and <a href="https://twitter.com/captaincraigSA">@captaincraigSA</a> officially done. 404kms of heat, torment, camaraderie and fun. Thanks guys. <a href="https://t.co/LD6Cdh386E">pic.twitter.com/LD6Cdh386E</a></div>— Dane Walsh (@velotales) <a href="https://twitter.com/velotales/status/831967031876521989">February 15, 2017</a></blockquote><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script> Those final kilometres were filled with emotion. And we're not the emotional types. But so much goes through your mind. The sheer scale of 404 kilometres. The adventures we'd had. The places we'd been to. The good bits. The bad bits. The Miss Piggy Burger. And then the thought of returning to reality the following day hits you. Elation mixed with sadness. But for this one day, we were rock stars!<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-P9rf2TUWEYM/WKtWuj0gZKI/AAAAAAAA2YM/bRb0VSaQuasQ8GzSCha2J03kzf90CR9VACPcB/s1600/20170215_222308.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-P9rf2TUWEYM/WKtWuj0gZKI/AAAAAAAA2YM/bRb0VSaQuasQ8GzSCha2J03kzf90CR9VACPcB/s1600/20170215_222308.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rock stars</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xtZWPaKRDfE/WKtWuoGRhcI/AAAAAAAA2YM/tIeZKIXwzkwUgRDy_bJ3pn1HLLf2aeIBACPcB/s1600/20170215_222432.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xtZWPaKRDfE/WKtWuoGRhcI/AAAAAAAA2YM/tIeZKIXwzkwUgRDy_bJ3pn1HLLf2aeIBACPcB/s1600/20170215_222432.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Halfway having a moment.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div></div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/VeloTales/~4/JV2yfRZlDEo" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Velouriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06667777448042670759noreply@blogger.com7http://www.velotales.com/2017/02/the-big-day-out-2017.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5990819476840975001.post-76094881257260077742017-02-03T13:14:00.000+02:002017-02-03T14:32:49.884+02:00Oak Valley 24hr 2017<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Back in 2007, on a dry and dusty Wiesenhof track, I won my first solo 24 hour race. I had no idea what I was doing. I was never really in contention, lapping consistently slower than the leader. But I was having fun, lap after lap after lap, ably supported by my wife and Jayne, a third year physio student. My Raleigh RM7.0, equipped with 26 inch wheels, V brakes and those flappy Shimano shifters, was anything but a comfortable ride, and yet it handled everything that Meurant could throw at it.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-EibhcIi1FBs/WJRJsK3dPoI/AAAAAAAA1ok/wua3as8JwPszwlaqIn7t6GLil-Ox3FkhACPcB/s1600/Dirtopia%2B24%2BHour%2B2017%2BSunday%2B%2B%25C2%25AD%2B%25C2%25A9Mark%2BSampson165.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-EibhcIi1FBs/WJRJsK3dPoI/AAAAAAAA1ok/wua3as8JwPszwlaqIn7t6GLil-Ox3FkhACPcB/s1600/Dirtopia%2B24%2BHour%2B2017%2BSunday%2B%2B%25C2%25AD%2B%25C2%25A9Mark%2BSampson165.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In my element</td></tr></tbody></table>I wasn't in the race at all until 3 o'clock in the morning when Paul, the current leader (and mate), ran out of battery power. These were days when halogen lights and&nbsp;nickel cadmium batteries were the norm, and a smart lighting strategy was more important than a decent nutritional plan. I had recently bought, at great expense, one of those new fangled LED lights with a lithium ion battery. The jury was still out on whether these new gadgets would catch on as they were prone to overheating and blowing up. Mine was super fancy and had a thermal cut out that would kick in and turn the light off before it exploded. And I knew it worked because it would cut out without warning in the warm South African nights, regardless of whether you were just coasting along or bombing down some gnarly single track, plunging everything into absolute darkness. Wait a few minutes and the light would return to life, unlike those halogen/nickel cadmium monstrosities.<br /><br />At sunrise I took the lead, and for the next 3 hours Paul and I duked it out, throwing everything we had at each other. I imagine we looked like two sloths fighting in slow motion, pushing our broken bodies to the limits to get the upper hand. And with 3 hours to go Paul cracked. He didn't bonk, or run out of legs, he just couldn't convince his bum to sit on his saddle for one more lap, his 26 inch hardtail feeling like a razorblade covered cactus. I did one more lap and then waited for the finish, sharing war stories with Paul. It might have looked like we were racing each other, but ultimately we were racing ourselves, comrades in arms against the demon that is solo 24 hour racing.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-61KQcHvM39M/WJRJsK_93aI/AAAAAAAA1ok/r0FFYhQNZU03IHgIng8YGcmP8V8hDs8lwCPcB/s1600/Dirtopia%2B24%2BHour%2B2017%2B%25C2%25AD%2B%25C2%25A9Mark%2BSampson608.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-61KQcHvM39M/WJRJsK_93aI/AAAAAAAA1ok/r0FFYhQNZU03IHgIng8YGcmP8V8hDs8lwCPcB/s1600/Dirtopia%2B24%2BHour%2B2017%2B%25C2%25AD%2B%25C2%25A9Mark%2BSampson608.jpg" width="540" /></a></div>Fast forward 10 years and nothing has changed. Sure, the bikes have evolved and those LED lights did catch on, but solo 24 hour racing is still about racing your own demons. And this year was no different. In the weeks leading up to the event the pressure starts to mount as the self doubt begins to creep in. Have I done enough training? Did I do the right sort of training? What training has the competition been doing? Who is the competition this year? Race day can't come soon enough.<br /><br />The venue at Oak Valley might be bigger, and Dirtopia might have a few more banners, but you can always bank on Meurant putting together a course with a little bit of everything. Some testing climbs, some twitchy single track and some flowing downhills. The heavy rains in the run up to the event might have forced some route changes, but it was still a perfect route for 24 hour racing.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fwPU2SCqw_g/WJRJsPaazoI/AAAAAAAA1ok/u_EjlyzwvycVpMxXZL8GPievJPaAykeJQCPcB/s1600/Dirtopia%2B24%2BHour%2B2017%2BSunday%2B%2B%25C2%25AD%2B%25C2%25A9Mark%2BSampson319.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fwPU2SCqw_g/WJRJsPaazoI/AAAAAAAA1ok/u_EjlyzwvycVpMxXZL8GPievJPaAykeJQCPcB/s1600/Dirtopia%2B24%2BHour%2B2017%2BSunday%2B%2B%25C2%25AD%2B%25C2%25A9Mark%2BSampson319.jpg" width="540" /></a></div>Right from the start at 12pm I try to do my own thing but this year I had company, several riders watching my every move under the mistaken impression that I know what I am doing. I don't. My strategy is rather simple - get into a rhythm and routine and try to keep that going as smoothly as possible for as long as possible. A 24 hour race isn't won in the first 6 hours, but it certainly can be lost in the first 6 hours. With that in mind I was quite hesitant to engage in any racing, but I also don't like company.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GMEnvPe3efI/WJRPAVfzKjI/AAAAAAAA1pA/etrRmsNMvx8Ej1fzGNxwveWvAEKApiLmACPcB/s1600/DSC_4616.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GMEnvPe3efI/WJRPAVfzKjI/AAAAAAAA1pA/etrRmsNMvx8Ej1fzGNxwveWvAEKApiLmACPcB/s1600/DSC_4616.JPG" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My "long suffering wife"</td></tr></tbody></table>And so I took a calculated risk. Put in some quicker laps, push quite hard on the climbs and see who responds, and for how long. One way or another the race was going to be settled before the sun went down, and I hoped that I'd be on the right side of that risk. Two or three riders followed me, including Lance - the nearly man of so many 24 hour races. From previous years I knew he was a maniac on the technical downhill stuff that I hated so much, but I also knew that he disliked the hills even more than I did. With that in mind I hatched a plan - push on the ups and recover on the downs, and see how long we could do that little dance.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-AeBqmJsHCfE/WJRJsHo6CmI/AAAAAAAA1ok/ZzdikKCbihABpaiO8XxzC1AaxkQEzM8_QCPcB/s1600/Dirtopia%2B24%2BHour%2B2017%2B%25C2%25AD%2B%25C2%25A9Mark%2BSampson158%2Bcopy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-AeBqmJsHCfE/WJRJsHo6CmI/AAAAAAAA1ok/ZzdikKCbihABpaiO8XxzC1AaxkQEzM8_QCPcB/s1600/Dirtopia%2B24%2BHour%2B2017%2B%25C2%25AD%2B%25C2%25A9Mark%2BSampson158%2Bcopy.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Dane Train</td></tr></tbody></table>Like a seasoned roadie Lance remained glued to my wheel, only ditching me on the descents before resuming his position behind me, lap after lap after lap. Just as I was starting to doubt my strategy and my ability to keep up the efforts on the climbs I got a hint. It wasn't much. A bike length or two briefly opened up between us, and Lance closed it quicker than it had appeared. But it was enough. That was the sign I needed. We did a few more laps together with the gap opening up slightly larger each time before I lost him at the transition area for good. And while the race was far from over, I was able to once again ride my race at my pace.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FntXA2FexEk/WJRPAVqItgI/AAAAAAAA1pA/YXXaKyj394obz04a31qaXhNu4ZpPiT7jQCPcB/s1600/DSC_4649.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FntXA2FexEk/WJRPAVqItgI/AAAAAAAA1pA/YXXaKyj394obz04a31qaXhNu4ZpPiT7jQCPcB/s1600/DSC_4649.JPG" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Backup and backup to the backup</td></tr></tbody></table>The best part about 24 hour racing is that you get so many opportunities to ride the perfect lap. Your knowledge of the course grows as you tweak and adjust your lines, push the limits on braking points and measure your efforts more appropriately. A mental picture builds up in your mind of where you are on the route, what's coming up, and the best way to ride it. It's mountain biking by numbers, and it's highly effective when the brain starts to turn to porridge. However, it all comes crashing down when you round a corner and a completely new scene greets you. It could be a rock that is out of place, or a branch jutting out into the path. It could be a dropped water bottle or skid mark, but it's enough to snap you out of autopilot mode and force you to reassess the scene before you. And as you rebuild your mental picture you start to ask questions. What happened that caused a 15kg rock to roll into the path? Where did that branch come from? Do they know they've dropped a water bottle? Why did they brake so hard right here?<br /><br />And before you know it you've gone full&nbsp;Inspector Clouseau, looking for clues. Was there a crash? Is there someone lying in the bushes? Was it sabotage? Is the skid mark related to the dropped bottle? Of course, there are no answers, but it keeps the mind busy, and while the mind is playing&nbsp;Inspector Clouseau it's not thinking about your sore bum, or the ache in your knee, and that is something that money can't buy!<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fSE-JsH9Mj8/WJRPebl8qtI/AAAAAAAA1pQ/t8TMQs0oo7M5YiW1zkuRh92vgKbnaOTOACPcB/s1600/16388102_10154967590177128_2614402029045553434_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fSE-JsH9Mj8/WJRPebl8qtI/AAAAAAAA1pQ/t8TMQs0oo7M5YiW1zkuRh92vgKbnaOTOACPcB/s1600/16388102_10154967590177128_2614402029045553434_n.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mutual respect</td></tr></tbody></table>As the night goes on the course gets quieter as only the crazy remain out on route, the more sane people opting to catch a few hours of sleep. It's then that solo 24 hour racing becomes magical. Your whole worldview is a tiny puddle of light in front of you (that thankfully no longer cuts out when it overheats) and the only beings keeping you company are the&nbsp;Leopard Toads out on the route, and a handful of totally committed backup crew in the transition area. It was around this time that Lance and I found ourselves in sync once again, albeit I was a lap up. The aggressions of earlier were a thing of the past, and we enjoyed a couple of laps together, keeping the demons away through strength in numbers. In a great show of sportsmanship, Lance invited me for a coffee break, and so, for the duration of the coffee break a ceasefire in hostilities was declared as we chatted about the race, the course, and the competition. With the last sip of coffee, our race resumed and we parted ways. As it turned out we wouldn't see each other again on the course until it was all over.<br /><br />A successful 24hr race requires 3 things. A good, simple strategy. An amazing backup team (and not only do I still have my wife doing backup, even my backup has backup). And no creature comforts. I'm there to ride my bike for as long and as far as possible. No sitting down. No catnaps. My bike must be the most appealing thing for those 24 hours. My reward for doing a lap is a quick snack, and the chance to do another lap. And while it's tough to leave the backup crew at 2 in the morning, they have the "you have to be cruel to be kind" thing waxed and will chase me on my way if I overstay my welcome.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QM8XbjM7GCE/WJRJsOMHT-I/AAAAAAAA1ok/rPckm9lXtJU2l7iRQGvKGptL3COXC6K_wCPcB/s1600/Dirtopia%2B24%2BHour%2B2017%2BSunday%2B%2B%25C2%25AD%2B%25C2%25A9Mark%2BSampson454.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QM8XbjM7GCE/WJRJsOMHT-I/AAAAAAAA1ok/rPckm9lXtJU2l7iRQGvKGptL3COXC6K_wCPcB/s1600/Dirtopia%2B24%2BHour%2B2017%2BSunday%2B%2B%25C2%25AD%2B%25C2%25A9Mark%2BSampson454.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lost in thought</td></tr></tbody></table>There are several significant moments when riding a 24hr race - the start which puts an end to all the waiting and nervous energy. The finish which puts an end to all the suffering and exertion. Sunset, which transforms the course into a dark and lonely world. But for me, the moment I enjoy the most is that lap that starts in the dark, and finishes in the light as the sun slowly makes a reappearance. That's the sign that everything is going to be ok. It's not over yet, but I've broken the camel's back. I'm in the finishing straight with just 6 hours remaining. Keep it steady, look after the body, choose clean lines, and enjoy the last few laps.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/--2-MJ2S0ta4/WJRPeXv2LnI/AAAAAAAA1pQ/iaQByUBR2sU4sWaC4jMPPIhSvJ7Jf3WEACPcB/s1600/16123853_157697934729395_2144421748634812416_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/--2-MJ2S0ta4/WJRPeXv2LnI/AAAAAAAA1pQ/iaQByUBR2sU4sWaC4jMPPIhSvJ7Jf3WEACPcB/s1600/16123853_157697934729395_2144421748634812416_n.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The traditional post race photo with Meurant</td></tr></tbody></table>As the sun rises higher in the sky, the course fills with more and more riders, each with their own tales of hardship, suffering and endurance. Their bodies showing the signs of fatigue and torment, but their smiles revealing the fun that they're still having. With 12pm approaching, those with any mental capacity left are doing sums as to how many more laps they want to do. How many more they need to do. I'd set my mind on 30 laps being enough for victory, but at the behest of my backup crew I did one more, just to make sure, and just to make them happy. And while the number 31 really grates with me (it's prime, and consists of two primes, and is just an ugly number), it didn't grate me enough that I was going to do another lap!<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_xWfSaC8suY/WJRPAVl_qYI/AAAAAAAA1pA/ZD4H8J5LMA06o2qs8QxDDnujXSCX7vGxACPcB/s1600/DSC_4654.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_xWfSaC8suY/WJRPAVl_qYI/AAAAAAAA1pA/ZD4H8J5LMA06o2qs8QxDDnujXSCX7vGxACPcB/s1600/DSC_4654.JPG" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The winning team!</td></tr></tbody></table>And so, with 31 laps in the bag, a total of 378km and 7500m of climbing, I crossed the line for the last time, glad to finally get off the bike, and pleased to have conquered the 24 hour demons once again.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2myQxehSW_s/WJRJsCkkatI/AAAAAAAA1ok/vCKuFlK9zFUEZtLrNEAzBffjXmn8IwXeQCPcB/s1600/Dirtopia%2B24%2BHour%2B2017%2BSunday%2B%2B%25C2%25AD%2B%25C2%25A9Mark%2BSampson641.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2myQxehSW_s/WJRJsCkkatI/AAAAAAAA1ok/vCKuFlK9zFUEZtLrNEAzBffjXmn8IwXeQCPcB/s1600/Dirtopia%2B24%2BHour%2B2017%2BSunday%2B%2B%25C2%25AD%2B%25C2%25A9Mark%2BSampson641.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The 2017 podium</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><br />Thanks to <a href="http://mark%20sampson/">Mark Sampson</a>&nbsp;for the photos.</div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/VeloTales/~4/3SeDUjAbZeo" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Velouriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06667777448042670759noreply@blogger.com3http://www.velotales.com/2017/02/oak-valley-24hr-2017.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5990819476840975001.post-50709365139836303452017-01-03T12:28:00.000+02:002017-01-03T12:28:00.047+02:00Klein Karoo Caper 2016<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Sometimes we get so obsessed with training, racing, Strava, kudos, heart rates, average speeds and KOMs that we forget the reason we started riding bikes in the first place. For me, it was the freedom, the big outdoors, the adventure, the independence and the me time.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-8zOnhPQEigs/WGtyRfQhxbI/AAAAAAAA0ok/Nmp-lNxyIjo8T3zJpzajpqP-_txu85g2wCPcB/s1600/image.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-8zOnhPQEigs/WGtyRfQhxbI/AAAAAAAA0ok/Nmp-lNxyIjo8T3zJpzajpqP-_txu85g2wCPcB/s1600/image.jpeg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The intrepid adventurers</td></tr></tbody></table>This was my second adventure with <a href="http://capecycletours.com/">Cape Cycle Tours</a>, and once again they did a fantastic job in reminding me about the joy that simple bike riding brings. The wind on your face, surrounded by friends, riding through some of the most scenic parts of our beautiful country. No pressure, no urgency. The journey was the adventure, not the destination.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hLgSf3OvPrg/WGtyReKiREI/AAAAAAAA0ok/a24rL3kuH-sTzFmy0jTexKxftzj5YBFzgCPcB/s1600/DSC_1183.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hLgSf3OvPrg/WGtyReKiREI/AAAAAAAA0ok/a24rL3kuH-sTzFmy0jTexKxftzj5YBFzgCPcB/s1600/DSC_1183.JPG" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Places I'd never been to before</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CXVnZKaBBGw/WGtyRc7H-4I/AAAAAAAA0ok/GEd603wOOxw4dLeaaNvdEeuQnnFOvDZFACPcB/s1600/image.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CXVnZKaBBGw/WGtyRc7H-4I/AAAAAAAA0ok/GEd603wOOxw4dLeaaNvdEeuQnnFOvDZFACPcB/s1600/image.jpeg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No need for bike locks or car guards</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6uWypGCjArc/WGtyRfN1cZI/AAAAAAAA0ok/92QlvOTFwTkW8rhJCJnhpQ22VrstrXjFwCPcB/s1600/image.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6uWypGCjArc/WGtyRfN1cZI/AAAAAAAA0ok/92QlvOTFwTkW8rhJCJnhpQ22VrstrXjFwCPcB/s1600/image.jpeg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Peloton</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4mPMKfpj95E/WGtyRYLr6CI/AAAAAAAA0ok/XXLdn3zl-BcT7Dt-8BY1LKuoWo5_PcomQCPcB/s1600/image.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4mPMKfpj95E/WGtyRYLr6CI/AAAAAAAA0ok/XXLdn3zl-BcT7Dt-8BY1LKuoWo5_PcomQCPcB/s1600/image.jpeg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our pace setter</td></tr></tbody></table>If you're looking for that weekend break that's a little different, or some time to forget about the outside world, a tour like this is perfect. No Twitter, no email, and most of the time, not even cell phone reception. Conversation is done around a fire with a glass of wine, not online. Meals are events, more than just nutritional replenishment. Schedules and distances are merely guidelines, and are likely to change based on the amount of wine had the previous night, or the time spent at quaint coffee shop in the middle of nowhere.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lAHAljnWi5E/WGtyRVRVqCI/AAAAAAAA0ok/dY30GuRkmOQx2k12_rqIqMEsbB2B44UKQCPcB/s1600/image.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lAHAljnWi5E/WGtyRVRVqCI/AAAAAAAA0ok/dY30GuRkmOQx2k12_rqIqMEsbB2B44UKQCPcB/s1600/image.jpeg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-NNV7ezPU8Vc/V6o-D3oOfkI/AAAAAAAAvf4/yG6NqMpEYZoovtp-O_j9cgvOP3A6tlRqgCPcB/s1600/IMG_20160806_145159.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-NNV7ezPU8Vc/V6o-D3oOfkI/AAAAAAAAvf4/yG6NqMpEYZoovtp-O_j9cgvOP3A6tlRqgCPcB/s1600/IMG_20160806_145159.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">Literally stopped to smell the flowers</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YX85oQ3eEkc/WGt1C1eqK0I/AAAAAAAA0o4/fQ3CrRJZyI8sJZ7PAv4Jg_G9SPZDfKOEQCPcB/s1600/image.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YX85oQ3eEkc/WGt1C1eqK0I/AAAAAAAA0o4/fQ3CrRJZyI8sJZ7PAv4Jg_G9SPZDfKOEQCPcB/s1600/image.jpeg" width="540" /></a></div><br /><div style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-642ufaihPXg/WGtyRXm6zpI/AAAAAAAA0ok/ZLlBlfatSMs8mnbHHtGdrh7PTRPVB4KEACPcB/s1600/image.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-642ufaihPXg/WGtyRXm6zpI/AAAAAAAA0ok/ZLlBlfatSMs8mnbHHtGdrh7PTRPVB4KEACPcB/s1600/image.jpeg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ridiculously cheap coffee</td></tr></tbody></table></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zsxkqs1oJco/V6o-DwbcVLI/AAAAAAAAvf4/ENHxcD1g7ogM94qdJ5MXNY8m_O4py00_wCPcB/s1600/IMG_20160807_145244.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zsxkqs1oJco/V6o-DwbcVLI/AAAAAAAAvf4/ENHxcD1g7ogM94qdJ5MXNY8m_O4py00_wCPcB/s1600/IMG_20160807_145244.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is not the top!</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-qW6N4F8V9S8/V6o-D9mXtDI/AAAAAAAAvf4/h2A5KUl0DrEL1CIY2CoLsEcJsC4HX-FbgCPcB/s1600/PANO_20160807_154615.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-qW6N4F8V9S8/V6o-D9mXtDI/AAAAAAAAvf4/h2A5KUl0DrEL1CIY2CoLsEcJsC4HX-FbgCPcB/s1600/PANO_20160807_154615.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Today's downhill is tomorrow's uphill</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EN9DVShP98w/WGtyRZbkCdI/AAAAAAAA0ok/GJCnogymbPsKbe3r1jfAnMBrgeEpCTiqgCPcB/s1600/DSC_1254.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EN9DVShP98w/WGtyRZbkCdI/AAAAAAAA0ok/GJCnogymbPsKbe3r1jfAnMBrgeEpCTiqgCPcB/s1600/DSC_1254.JPG" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My first time to Prince Albert</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-W3Pd8q5eyB0/WGt1PTIdSoI/AAAAAAAA0pE/ujTCCmcCVKgGQFzzkKaiiWbBzD3Wz_znwCPcB/s1600/image.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-W3Pd8q5eyB0/WGt1PTIdSoI/AAAAAAAA0pE/ujTCCmcCVKgGQFzzkKaiiWbBzD3Wz_znwCPcB/s1600/image.jpeg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It was so much more fun the other way!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZEU6TTfjqkM/WGtyRUaO3xI/AAAAAAAA0ok/8QhQC61FZBALwXDN0QWSrjBIZKYSakYYwCPcB/s1600/DSC_1288.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZEU6TTfjqkM/WGtyRUaO3xI/AAAAAAAA0ok/8QhQC61FZBALwXDN0QWSrjBIZKYSakYYwCPcB/s1600/DSC_1288.JPG" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Reads like an invitation!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2g-FCbs2DOc/V6o-D_lSqRI/AAAAAAAAvf4/XcURS-A1X8kM0f_V3IF5wqrI8ptrIlgwACPcB/s1600/IMG_20160808_142254.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2g-FCbs2DOc/V6o-D_lSqRI/AAAAAAAAvf4/XcURS-A1X8kM0f_V3IF5wqrI8ptrIlgwACPcB/s1600/IMG_20160808_142254.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some chose tea, others opted for a G&amp;T</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-p8LpLK1Lih4/V6o-D42o6xI/AAAAAAAAvf4/-kaUbyXthiknJqpCBQWhkARMpoqUmQ3JACPcB/s1600/IMG_20160808_143325.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-p8LpLK1Lih4/V6o-D42o6xI/AAAAAAAAvf4/-kaUbyXthiknJqpCBQWhkARMpoqUmQ3JACPcB/s1600/IMG_20160808_143325.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At Cape Cycle Tours, everyone is welcome</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qjqQT7qmDyA/WGt1bEGDeFI/AAAAAAAA0pM/J3bIufdl2ok1OifWy1s2p1v3MZxwurqeQCPcB/s1600/image.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qjqQT7qmDyA/WGt1bEGDeFI/AAAAAAAA0pM/J3bIufdl2ok1OifWy1s2p1v3MZxwurqeQCPcB/s1600/image.jpeg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A simple sign for a massive achievement</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-D2h9EeXcC-k/WGtyRX-8cFI/AAAAAAAA0ok/iA-jNOj_HOw16BZ8RFb7MlwlDxxQ0P1PgCPcB/s1600/DSC_1344.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-D2h9EeXcC-k/WGtyRX-8cFI/AAAAAAAA0ok/iA-jNOj_HOw16BZ8RFb7MlwlDxxQ0P1PgCPcB/s1600/DSC_1344.JPG" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And yet we enjoyed it!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GIVJcIXwM-o/WGtyRcLBZXI/AAAAAAAA0ok/eUVmbwQYWcQ6xSBqRZWrfquEzakgD8QwwCPcB/s1600/image.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GIVJcIXwM-o/WGtyRcLBZXI/AAAAAAAA0ok/eUVmbwQYWcQ6xSBqRZWrfquEzakgD8QwwCPcB/s1600/image.jpeg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Which way is home?</td></tr></tbody></table>With so many amazing places on offer in the wonderful country of ours, there is no better way to explore it than on a bike, with friends. I can't wait for the next adventure.</div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/VeloTales/~4/63orkoYAX6o" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Velouriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06667777448042670759noreply@blogger.com0http://www.velotales.com/2017/01/klein-karoo-caper-2016.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5990819476840975001.post-63951618315514592912016-11-29T23:51:00.000+02:002016-11-29T23:58:31.392+02:00Double Century 2016<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">As the race reports start trickling in, the Coronation Double Century seems to have lived up to its reputation as being one of the ultimate tests on a bicycle. From racing teams to weekend warriors, this event pushes everyone to the limit, and sometimes a little beyond. It brings out the best in people, and occasionally the worst, testing fitness, teamwork, endurance, strategy, and one's sense of humour.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9fAE0dIxy4o/WD3rsCKXTZI/AAAAAAAAzW8/Ag_uNBWSwzgTtI6LcWEHfGmBISJYh6MigCPcB/s1600/DSC_3814.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9fAE0dIxy4o/WD3rsCKXTZI/AAAAAAAAzW8/Ag_uNBWSwzgTtI6LcWEHfGmBISJYh6MigCPcB/s1600/DSC_3814.JPG" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The traditional prerace photo</td></tr></tbody></table>Training starts in earnest for the Double Century in July, when the first teams brave the winter weather (at least in the Cape) and start building the fitness. As summer approaches, more and more teams litter the roads, twelve people working on their strategy. For some that strategy is to win, for others, a target time, and some, just to finish. The final build up is marked with an explosion of social media activity, photos of near perfect pace lines litter the internet, as do pictures of race day kit. It's then that you start panicking about the one ride you missed, or the interval session you took a little too easy.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7KTCaGngqHs/WDwxVBOy8PI/AAAAAAAAzU0/UBIpfQ2TzykIJuVab2cFevY6aBRaOQ30ACPcB/s1600/CyKnxRlW8AAsd-m.jpg%253Alarge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7KTCaGngqHs/WDwxVBOy8PI/AAAAAAAAzU0/UBIpfQ2TzykIJuVab2cFevY6aBRaOQ30ACPcB/s1600/CyKnxRlW8AAsd-m.jpg%253Alarge.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Team Selfie</td></tr></tbody></table>Thankfully, Team HotChillee avoids all this stress. We're a one time team. We get together for one ride, and that's it. Race Day. Often, the first time we meet most of our fellow teammates is the night before the action begins. This is not to say that there isn't a rigorous and stringent selection process that newcomers need to pass in order to ride in the HotChillee colours. Potential riders are stalked and analysed on Strava, race results are compared and tabulated, and social media profiles are scrutinised. The final test for any newcomer is what we call the Saturday Night test. For us, the event doesn't finish when you cross the line. The Saturday Night Braai and Sunday Fry Up are as much part of the Double Century weekend as riding bikes for 202 kilometres is.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-XwhwgECjEiQ/WD3r4IfcIFI/AAAAAAAAzXA/u9537QsWIAMWWuf24vhYJigYdZVXOaCRgCPcB/s1600/DSC_3839.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-XwhwgECjEiQ/WD3r4IfcIFI/AAAAAAAAzXA/u9537QsWIAMWWuf24vhYJigYdZVXOaCRgCPcB/s1600/DSC_3839.JPG" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A roadie, a triathlete and a Paris Roubaix winner all get into a cab...</td></tr></tbody></table>Once again, HotChillee had entered two teams, a racing team and a mixed team, and we gathered for the traditional pre-race meal at Tridici. Much like a good race strategy, one needs a decent meal strategy when dining at Tridici. Go big on the main course and you're going to fade towards the end of the evening. Much like the race, the secret is to pace yourself, and finish strongly. You want to be there when the legendary chocolate brownies make an appearance. Tridici virgins are easy to spot - those individuals that look longingly at the dessert table with regret in their eyes.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-msBzwc9dSmA/WDwxVNeY9hI/AAAAAAAAzU0/BfzxTcj43csvBT4Au2xGqE7aeQW401e_ACPcB/s1600/CyKfniZWIAA0a3Y.jpg%253Alarge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-msBzwc9dSmA/WDwxVNeY9hI/AAAAAAAAzU0/BfzxTcj43csvBT4Au2xGqE7aeQW401e_ACPcB/s1600/CyKfniZWIAA0a3Y.jpg%253Alarge.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looks like trouble!</td></tr></tbody></table>With dinner out of the way, it was time for the team meetings. A chance for everyone to contribute to the plan for the following day. And while we pretty much know what needs to be done, it's a great opportunity for the the new guys to offer some tips and hints. One such new guy was a big Swedish guy by the name of <a href="https://twitter.com/maggy_pr">Magnus Backstedt</a>. If Sweden played top flight&nbsp;<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sweden_national_rugby_union_team">rugby</a>, he'd have been a lock, but instead he chose to unleash his power on the roads of Northern France, culminating in a famous win at <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2004_Paris%E2%80%93Roubaix">Paris-Roubaix in 2004</a>. He quietly listened to our team strategy and then asked to say a word or two. After the seventh time of mentioning the phrase "just smash it", I think I might have passed out from the fear of what awaited us the following morning!<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jdFOUyb0JVM/WDwxVBdklZI/AAAAAAAAzU0/ruVBG-aMo2gVy4RkCnCDdgZThGtWborogCPcB/s1600/CDC16_0342.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jdFOUyb0JVM/WDwxVBdklZI/AAAAAAAAzU0/ruVBG-aMo2gVy4RkCnCDdgZThGtWborogCPcB/s1600/CDC16_0342.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Magnus, smashing it before we've even hit the timing mats!</td></tr></tbody></table>Team HotChillee ProAm lined up on the start line for a 7:13 start, a mixture of experience and youth, pros and amateurs. Two riders who have successfully navigated the HotChillee Development Rider Program were back,&nbsp;<a href="https://twitter.com/nich_dlamini">Nicholas Dlamini</a>&nbsp;and&nbsp;<a href="https://twitter.com/shameegsalie">Shameeg Salie</a>, and it's always fantastic to see them grow as professional bike racers. Joining them was&nbsp;<a href="https://www.facebook.com/tmxenge">Thulasizwe Mxenge</a>, a product of the&nbsp;<a href="http://velokhaya.com/">Velokhaya</a>&nbsp;and HotChillee Development Rider Program, and a talented youngster on a bike. Other new additions to the team that we'd also successfully&nbsp;<strike>stalked</strike>&nbsp;researched included the two powerhouses - WattBike Rikus and Warren S, and of course, The Big Swede. The remainder of the team consisted of the usual suspects, Jarryd, Captain Craig, Dan the Triathlete, Luke - the Original Wattage Cottage, and myself. Astute readers will notice that there are only 11 names. Unfortunately, Halfway Warren was fighting a late onset of the plague and was bedridden. He is now affectionately known as Nowhere Warren.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LDa13qB1YBc/WDwxVObDk0I/AAAAAAAAzU0/uOXoBo5ZEUkO47qDemvk9kBQJ6qNBCX4QCPcB/s1600/CDC16_0566.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LDa13qB1YBc/WDwxVObDk0I/AAAAAAAAzU0/uOXoBo5ZEUkO47qDemvk9kBQJ6qNBCX4QCPcB/s1600/CDC16_0566.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You don't ride as much behind Magnus, but rather under him!</td></tr></tbody></table>As the gun went off, Magnus did indeed "smash it" right from the start. Zero to 45km/h in 15 seconds. Images flashed before my eyes of being dropped by my team within sight of the start banner as I fought to clip my feet into the pedals. And while we have dropped a rider previously before reaching the N2, I was in no way looking to break that record. Thankfully, The Big Swede has an aversion to hills, and I'm sure I was not alone in sighing a deep sigh of relief when gravity reined him in a bit. And heaven help the the rest of us if he saw a team up the road! Too make matters worse, we were being put to the sword by a guy who had been off the bike for two months, having ridden for the first time the week previously, and was riding a brand new bike that he'd received the night before.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5bDD1INnUaA/WDwxVA8fJHI/AAAAAAAAzU0/zR04rJRjag8dMpURW8EIpJ0iWFftpDO9gCPcB/s1600/CDC16_0875.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5bDD1INnUaA/WDwxVA8fJHI/AAAAAAAAzU0/zR04rJRjag8dMpURW8EIpJ0iWFftpDO9gCPcB/s1600/CDC16_0875.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">All aboard!</td></tr></tbody></table>It was with mixed emotions that we waved goodbye to Magnus as we hit the bottom of the first climb. Relief that the haze of pain and misery would lift as we settled into a more manageable pace, sadness that he'd completely cooked Warren S, and disappointment that we'd lost our powerhouse and dispenser of peloton justice. No team dared argue when Big Maggie told them to stop wheelsucking us!<br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-60GRPO7wya8/WD3r4IRpH-I/AAAAAAAAzXA/DcZNRSjBvasTFYhiuz_R4nRiMiEAtPw5gCPcB/s1600/DSC_3832.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-60GRPO7wya8/WD3r4IRpH-I/AAAAAAAAzXA/DcZNRSjBvasTFYhiuz_R4nRiMiEAtPw5gCPcB/s1600/DSC_3832.JPG" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I was warned about sharing too many backup secrets!</td></tr></tbody></table>With nine riders remaining and 70 kilometres to the first stop I'd be lying if said I wasn't a bit perturbed. Had we overdone it a bit? Too fast too early? But I needn't have worried. Our Dimension Data pros stepped up to the challenge, continuing the destruction where Magnus had left off. In the few short years of riding with us they'd gone from promising bike riders to talented bike racers. They took on the lion's share of the pace setting, driving us onward relentlessly, while the rest of us did what we could to contribute to the team cause.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mkbU_Q_iNTQ/WDwxVO0H6pI/AAAAAAAAzU0/41PS2KkSbhwU1hDy7mlvfpYlcLArqZN2gCPcB/s1600/CDC16_2095.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mkbU_Q_iNTQ/WDwxVO0H6pI/AAAAAAAAzU0/41PS2KkSbhwU1hDy7mlvfpYlcLArqZN2gCPcB/s1600/CDC16_2095.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not often that you get to "recover" while on the front</td></tr></tbody></table>As we hit the foot of Op de Tradouw pass - Thula pulled up alongside me and asked for a bottle. I still had a full bottle, and thinking he just wanted a sip or two of my juice - I handed my bottle over. And that was the last I saw of both Thula and my bottle. In the many years of riding this race I'd seen some well calculated drops, from Jarryd selling me down the river in <a href="http://www.velotales.com/2011/11/double-century-2011.html">2011</a>&nbsp;with an expertly timed vanishing manoeuvre, to Nic fading on us in <a href="http://www.velotales.com/2014/11/coronation-double-century-2014.html">2014</a> and leaving two amateurs to punch way above their weight with several seasoned pros. But this one was something special. It wasn't just a well calculated drop, it was a well calculated drop with a masterstroke of artful convincing. And suddenly we were down to 8 riders with 40 kilometres to go, and I had quarter of a bottle left.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-iCFxgfnJ6Gc/WDwxVHk04PI/AAAAAAAAzU0/rRluBkGR7L8w9naWncZi-l2yLOP_KjRdQCPcB/s1600/CDC16_2256.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-iCFxgfnJ6Gc/WDwxVHk04PI/AAAAAAAAzU0/rRluBkGR7L8w9naWncZi-l2yLOP_KjRdQCPcB/s1600/CDC16_2256.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Choo Choo!</td></tr></tbody></table>The great thing about the Double Century is that not only do us amateurs get to ride with some of the best pros out there, we also get to race against them. And while&nbsp;Louis Meintjes might have a Tour de France top 10 under his belt, and pretty much every Strava KOM on the DC route, I recorded a higher top speed than he did. And anyone who has ever seen me descend will know just what a feat that is for me!<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PbGW9MNnNpA/WDwxVKXjCbI/AAAAAAAAzU0/g9zzCR7w2IMdThe--AsDMW6ufTy_vFzxgCPcB/s1600/CDC16_3062.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PbGW9MNnNpA/WDwxVKXjCbI/AAAAAAAAzU0/g9zzCR7w2IMdThe--AsDMW6ufTy_vFzxgCPcB/s1600/CDC16_3062.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Descending like a demon!</td></tr></tbody></table>We rolled into the neutral section having clocked an average of 40km/h for the first 105 kilometres, and the toll was starting to show on several of the older riders. The thousand yard stares were aplenty as we restocked our supplies and replenished our bodies, our backup crew taking on the roles of miracle workers, psychologists, and trauma counselors. Reality quickly returned when through the masses we caught sight of The Swede. I was quite sure he still had a few "smash it" 's left in his legs, and we were all going to experience them shortly, first hand. Magnus grabbed a quick coke and we set off on the next voyage of misery and torment - 43 kilometres of trying to sit on the pointy end of the saddle for as long as possible. Thula had also made a reappearance, and after he gave my empty bottle back, I made a point of keeping my eye on him. I'm not sure what they're teaching the youngsters at Velokhaya, but Thula has certainly mastered the art of sneakiness!<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dBlOju4Jzfw/WDwxVGh_q2I/AAAAAAAAzU0/bTlSDfuLYqEmkc0L0RBuA7iym4StlpsdgCPcB/s1600/CDC16_2375.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dBlOju4Jzfw/WDwxVGh_q2I/AAAAAAAAzU0/bTlSDfuLYqEmkc0L0RBuA7iym4StlpsdgCPcB/s1600/CDC16_2375.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thula getting some ninja tips from Maggie</td></tr></tbody></table>Team HotChillee ProAm quickly collected a wheelsucking mixmatch of teams - teams quite happy to lurk behind us, reap the benefits of our work, and offer nothing in return. And despite our best efforts, there was nothing we could do about it other than to drive the pace on relentlessly. We started to suffer casualties early on, and before long the team was down to a skeleton crew again. The DiData guys, Dan the Triathlete, Jarryd, Thula the Quiet Ninja, and the surprise package of WattBike Rikus (he's named that because he is the only person on this earth who can sit on a Wattbike for 4 hours non stop). As the top 6 rode away from the rest of us, at least we could gain solace from the fact that our <strike>stalking</strike> research techniques had yielded at least one good result.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LONf4pf9W8k/WDwxVE7wXcI/AAAAAAAAzU8/MBo0jiq0uboDaZn77AySMDdWV4q1E4j4gCPcB/s1600/CDC16_2584.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LONf4pf9W8k/WDwxVE7wXcI/AAAAAAAAzU8/MBo0jiq0uboDaZn77AySMDdWV4q1E4j4gCPcB/s1600/CDC16_2584.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Swede with no "smash it" 's left</td></tr></tbody></table>For people who love riding bicycles, it's rather ironic how we all looked forward to the opportunity to get off our bikes at the next check point. And if Bonnievale had Uber coverage (here's an idea - Ubers with bike racks in Bonnivale for the last weekend of November) they would have made a killing! But alas, the only way to back to Swellendam was aboard the Swedish DiData express, and we all had tickets. Luke and Warren S however were so engrossed with more life threatening issues that the train left without them.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-S7Rm3eA4Ilc/WD3r4D3X_wI/AAAAAAAAzXA/CSX2hfyV27c8r-QsRnaOHzlAq0sb6XbHACPcB/s1600/DSC_3838.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-S7Rm3eA4Ilc/WD3r4D3X_wI/AAAAAAAAzXA/CSX2hfyV27c8r-QsRnaOHzlAq0sb6XbHACPcB/s1600/DSC_3838.JPG" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hell no, we won't go!</td></tr></tbody></table>Magnus had one last "smash it" left and used it just to the start of the climbing, before causing absolute chaos and mayhem in the following bunch with the rate at which he got dropped. When you see The Big Swede going backwards you do whatever you can to get out of the way. Captain Craig was next to go as the pace started to lift with the first hints of white line fever kicking in. As the first of the final 3 climbs approached, I pulled a Reverse Thula. I rode up alongside Thula, gave him my full bottle, and wished him luck for the remaining 20 kilometres. This was what the previous 180 kilometres had all been for - the final push to the line. As I watched The Sacred 6 of Team HotChillee ProAm disappear up the road, I could only hope we'd done enough.<br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5Ml6RqZhKyQ/WDwxVKxKtMI/AAAAAAAAzU0/Y8f5hi-cHScQ00LA7UyisqcPy5rtWsZbgCPcB/s1600/CDC16_2771.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5Ml6RqZhKyQ/WDwxVKxKtMI/AAAAAAAAzU0/Y8f5hi-cHScQ00LA7UyisqcPy5rtWsZbgCPcB/s1600/CDC16_2771.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Done!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0Sv9BVjtut8/WDwxVJF_R2I/AAAAAAAAzU0/9mzqHtassFwW-rn2EC6rBX8CL6w87btIgCPcB/s1600/IMG-20161126-WA0014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0Sv9BVjtut8/WDwxVJF_R2I/AAAAAAAAzU0/9mzqHtassFwW-rn2EC6rBX8CL6w87btIgCPcB/s1600/IMG-20161126-WA0014.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Sacred 6</td></tr></tbody></table>The rest of us limped home in drips and drabs, eager to see the results of the day's efforts. And finally we heard - 13 seconds separating 2nd, 3rd, and 4th, with Team HotChillee ProAm the unlucky bridesmaids in 4th. Team HotChillee Mixed fared much better, claiming a well earned second place with a strong ride from start to finish. Despite the result that will have us scratching our heads for ages, trying to find those elusive 9 seconds over 202 kilometres, the 2016 edition of the Coronation Double Century definitely lived up to its billing, and will certainly be remembered for years to come.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PXpnFm-okU4/WDwxVC3gI3I/AAAAAAAAzU0/1qYNmBJG_7Y8iPasFstjWVKv66l96WHZQCPcB/s1600/CDC16_2808.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PXpnFm-okU4/WDwxVC3gI3I/AAAAAAAAzU0/1qYNmBJG_7Y8iPasFstjWVKv66l96WHZQCPcB/s1600/CDC16_2808.jpg" width="540" /></a></div><br /><br /></div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/VeloTales/~4/LpV-kxtR7Hc" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Velouriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06667777448042670759noreply@blogger.com2http://www.velotales.com/2016/11/double-century-2016.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5990819476840975001.post-53089885056343765252016-08-25T16:33:00.000+02:002016-08-26T11:45:46.464+02:00Trans Baviaans 2016<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">For me, the year is divided into two halves - before Baviaans, and after Baviaans. Before Baviaans is the dark winter of the soul, body and mind - if you're not doing long lonely rides in appalling weather, you're abusing yourself in the garage on the WattBike - an exercise that makes queueing at the post office seem like a pleasurable affair. Before Baviaans is filled with fear, subterfuge and regret. Fear that come race day you're going to be the weakest link. Subterfuge in that the odd white lie about your current form might induce complacency in your partners, and regret in almost everything else. Regret that you entered this race. Regret that you didn't try to keep some of that amazing form from summer. Regret in having that extra helping of dessert. Regret in missing those last fifteen minutes of cooldown on the WattBike.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EIKzFTggdNQ/V772FTXOzYI/AAAAAAAAwIY/PBy58nAw4L4tptlXsTC9FiHjXrHToKTDQCPcB/s1600/IMG-20160813-WA0004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EIKzFTggdNQ/V772FTXOzYI/AAAAAAAAwIY/PBy58nAw4L4tptlXsTC9FiHjXrHToKTDQCPcB/s1600/IMG-20160813-WA0004.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Captain Craig, myself, and Last Minute Charles's finger</td></tr></tbody></table><br />In comparison, after Baviaans is a new beginning. The weight and dread of the event has passed and you're left with mostly positive memories of yet another magical trip through the Baviaanskloof. The legs feel amazing, bike riding is fun again, and it feels like summer is just around the corner. Perhaps this is what keeps us coming back, over and over again.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-71mlRgVbG5A/V772FQTzhnI/AAAAAAAAwIY/2AD4sCDSKoQUoU_oX0fi55Nc6w6RpLBNwCPcB/s1600/IMG-20160813-WA0005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-71mlRgVbG5A/V772FQTzhnI/AAAAAAAAwIY/2AD4sCDSKoQUoU_oX0fi55Nc6w6RpLBNwCPcB/s1600/IMG-20160813-WA0005.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spot the Brick Layers</td></tr></tbody></table>In hindsight, naming ourselves after the worst nuclear disaster ever was probably tempting fate a little, especially since this was my 13th adventure between Willowmore and Jeffreys Bay. Team Warm Fuzzy Kittens would have been more apt, but given our history of riding together, perhaps the name The Chernobyl Brick Layers is quite fitting.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bMbcVPdzDN0/V772FfK2oOI/AAAAAAAAwIY/g8QLOqFnliQYl7x8Swod6iMB2sqTB6x6gCPcB/s1600/IMG_20160813_092509.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bMbcVPdzDN0/V772FfK2oOI/AAAAAAAAwIY/g8QLOqFnliQYl7x8Swod6iMB2sqTB6x6gCPcB/s1600/IMG_20160813_092509.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Smiles before the storm</td></tr></tbody></table>We finally lined up on the start line in Willowmore once again, and for the first time in ages Captain Craig and I were just a two man team, with no backup - our usual accomplices abandoning us like the captain and crew of the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/MTS_Oceanos">Oceanos</a>. Thankfully, Last Minute Charles volunteered to undertake the vital role of dealing with our technical, nutritional, and logistical requirements. Our hopes were that the emotional fragility during the 2015 event would not be an issue, especially since Halfway would not be around to provide any much needed hugs.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-AABJXlZusdQ/V774nlltyRI/AAAAAAAAwJo/uURw_ypvYF03hbDj3vNu2LIGqXCH4dEsgCPcB/s1600/image2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-AABJXlZusdQ/V774nlltyRI/AAAAAAAAwJo/uURw_ypvYF03hbDj3vNu2LIGqXCH4dEsgCPcB/s1600/image2.JPG" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pre-race hydration and stategy session</td></tr></tbody></table>My sole objective for this year's race was to avoid the nuclear catastrophe I'd had the previous year during the first 100kms. Even the consolatory KOM I got did little to erase the mental scars that I've been carrying around for a whole year. My secondary objective was to not be the weakest link in The Chernobyl Brick Layers. Again, the 8 hours of being the whipping boy in the team the previous year were still fresh in my mind.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-taKDsZkMkEY/V772FaO0PLI/AAAAAAAAwIY/kWtMfu-BKeI1GkQxFwUoQwQriLmWMAfugCPcB/s1600/IMG_20160813_080629.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-taKDsZkMkEY/V772FaO0PLI/AAAAAAAAwIY/kWtMfu-BKeI1GkQxFwUoQwQriLmWMAfugCPcB/s1600/IMG_20160813_080629.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Team number 9</td></tr></tbody></table>After the traditional rendition of the national anthem before the start (and it really was a good rendition this year), 1200 slightly mental ultra endurance mountain bikers set off in search of the coast. The lead bunch quickly formed with the usual faces making an appearance. A noticeable change this year was the number of ladies in the front bunch, with all three mixed teams comfortably holding their own. The first 100kms were rather uneventful, except for the continuous hunting of a non-existent smooth line on the gravel road leading up to the Kloof. The choice was ultimately between loose road debris, corrugations, or dancing with the thorn trees on the side of the road. And being on hard tails, The Chernobyl Brick Layers found the going particularly bone jarring. Captain Craig and I had completely different approaches - he would ride on the front and pick his line, while I would do the same, but right at the back of the bunch, ala The Brick Layer BookEnds (probably a better team name).<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Dn9bOiLOKys/V774ngW3oCI/AAAAAAAAwJo/gOwFTETgGBMrq6U3lAw0jOmj_R85DFGXACPcB/s1600/image1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Dn9bOiLOKys/V774ngW3oCI/AAAAAAAAwJo/gOwFTETgGBMrq6U3lAw0jOmj_R85DFGXACPcB/s1600/image1.JPG" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Look mom - we're in the lead bunch!</td></tr></tbody></table>We made Checkpoint 2 in one piece this year, my main objective successfully achieved. Perhaps it was the horrid headwind that kept the bunch honest, or perhaps my legs were hiding some sort of form. From now on though, the real racing started, and the answer to my secondary objective would shortly be known. The next 40 kilometres are key, and more often than not, I somehow manage to fall to pieces up the climbs of Baviaans Back, Fangs and MAC, usually resulting in me leaving a toxic splatter of nuclear waste behind the water tanks at Checkpoint 4. But this year was different. The legs felt good, the stomach was behaving, and Captain Craig was showing the slightest signs of weakness - a truly rare occurrence. And by slightest signs of weakness I mean that I was able to ride at one or two heartbeats below nuclear meltdown zone.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-y9WIDT6GdR8/V77zH8Pub8I/AAAAAAAAwGs/Jt0K9I1HCJES7OSmRYVXxSXF1i0vdKS-ACPcB/s1600/Trans-Baviaans-Profile.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-y9WIDT6GdR8/V77zH8Pub8I/AAAAAAAAwGs/Jt0K9I1HCJES7OSmRYVXxSXF1i0vdKS-ACPcB/s1600/Trans-Baviaans-Profile.jpg" width="540" /></a></div>We rolled into Checkpoint 3, having made good progress with our steady pace, catching and passing several teams that either overdid the first 100kms, or underestimated the first of the climbs. While grabbing a coke (or two or three), we couldn't help overhear one of the motorbike marshals commenting about our bikes. Something like "These are the most unique bikes here. Totally old school. And hardcore. Hardtails - crazy. And check those forks. WTF. And look at the roadie cluster. Hahahahaha." We weren't quite sure what to make of all that. I'll give the "Hardtails - crazy" bit, but the rest? The Lauf fork is amazing, although it did come off second best over the corrugations. As for "the roadie cluster" - we both run 3x10 setups, mainly for the speed that the big blade gives us &nbsp;- Captain Craig has a 46 - and the security that the 22 blade offers should things go pear shaped. Nothing like watching 1x11 guys spinning their legs like a bunch of epileptic hooligans. Certainly not oldschool, since I'd just gone to 3x10 earlier this year ;)<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-B3NHZ5-wJy4/V772FbtcDMI/AAAAAAAAwIY/l5OWxGiEOcE1vjOGVNcb7RkQ34WM_1mugCPcB/s1600/IMG_20160812_210623.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-B3NHZ5-wJy4/V772FbtcDMI/AAAAAAAAwIY/l5OWxGiEOcE1vjOGVNcb7RkQ34WM_1mugCPcB/s1600/IMG_20160812_210623.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Old school roadie gears;)</td></tr></tbody></table>Back on the road we were still moving up through the field, having put in a good effort up The Fangs when disaster struck. What started off as a minor technical issue quickly escalated into a full on nuclear disaster. Captain Craig's back wheel lost pressure, so we stopped and bombed it. But that didn't work. There was still a leak. A leak we could hear but couldn't see. We tried to convince our porridge brains to take control of the situation, but they were having nothing of it. We eventually located the hole - a tiny side wall graze, enough to allow the air to slowly ooze out. We should have just bombed it again, and let the wonder of Stan's sealant do its thing. But we didn't. We were treating this <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/International_Nuclear_Event_Scale">minor anomaly as a full on major incident</a>. Our irrational brains decided that the best course of action was to fit a tube. So we popped the tyre off, and readied Captain Craig's tube. A 26 inch tube. For 29er wheelers. Square peg, meet round hole. With all the finesse of a gorilla with a 10 pound hammer, we finally wrestled the tube and tyre back onto the rim and bombed it all once again. While all this mayhem was occurring, team after team came flying past us, rubbing salt into our already raw wounds!<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-X4CBTtjAYiQ/V772FcVORXI/AAAAAAAAwIY/l0AUYvjfzigDXsA7_G1ClsHEaclIXjs8wCPcB/s1600/IMG-20160813-WA0000.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-X4CBTtjAYiQ/V772FcVORXI/AAAAAAAAwIY/l0AUYvjfzigDXsA7_G1ClsHEaclIXjs8wCPcB/s1600/IMG-20160813-WA0000.jpeg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Riding for the Rhinos</td></tr></tbody></table>After what seemed like an age - 10 minutes in a bike race like this is an age - we were going again, the Mother of all Climbs ahead of us. My last decent climb of that hill was in <a href="http://www.velotales.com/2013/08/trans-baviaans-2013.html">2013</a>, ironically when we were reduced to a two man team after Captain Craig broke his frame. We assumed our usual formation, side by side, in silence, as we inched up the climb. On a personal note, I was hoping to end my streak of pukiness, and so when we got to the KOM flags near the top of the climb and I hadn't needed to purge my stomach contents, I took it as a sign that our luck was changing. However, I always forget about the last little run into Checkpoint 4 - a horrible little uphill drag that seems to take an age. To add to the torment, the annoyingly persistent headwind was back, and so too were the first signs of trouble brewing in my belly. If I could just make the checkpoint in one piece, I'd be good enough to make it to the finish.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-lM4nMU2t7PI/V774npBmBhI/AAAAAAAAwJo/xsMoZnow_fcGNlBcOzKkAYOvGjVrtJ-UwCPcB/s1600/image2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-lM4nMU2t7PI/V774npBmBhI/AAAAAAAAwJo/xsMoZnow_fcGNlBcOzKkAYOvGjVrtJ-UwCPcB/s1600/image2.JPG" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yup - those are bar ends! Old school!</td></tr></tbody></table>We rolled into the checkpoint and chatted with a few of the teams that had past us during Puncturegate. Those sort of chats you have with your neighbour where you try to be friendly, but you're not actually friends (even if you are, this is a race and everyone's the enemy). While Captain Craig nursed his back wheel, I went about nursing my belly. And I don't mean my usual visual burp trick behind the water tanks - Coca Cola! With our lights attached (Captain Craig has a theory - we have backup lights at Checkpoint 3 and proper lights and Checkpoint 4 - perhaps we should be bold enough to have backup lights at Checkpoint 4 and proper lights at Checkpoint 5 - either way, we'd certainly be motivated enough to make Checkpoint 5 in the light!) we set off after the teams in front of us. Our hope was to find a nice little group and share the pace making, particularly given the relentless headwind. But our hopes were dashed. Not only did we not see a single other team for the next 30 kilometres, the wind seemed to have upped its annoyance factor too.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UNxAVCOBCXk/V774nlbREpI/AAAAAAAAwJo/nFrs7FjUar4c9wEB4qJUwnR5ziqxlwQnwCPcB/s1600/image1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UNxAVCOBCXk/V774nlbREpI/AAAAAAAAwJo/nFrs7FjUar4c9wEB4qJUwnR5ziqxlwQnwCPcB/s1600/image1.JPG" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The view up MAC<br />(Captain Craig wasn't suffering that much!)</td></tr></tbody></table>Checkpoint 5 was almost upon us when we finally spotted some targets -&nbsp;Maza &amp; Sipho - our nemeses from this year's&nbsp;<a href="http://www.velotales.com/2016/04/the-36one-2016.html">36One</a>. While Last Minute Charles took care of our bikes, and I stocked up on some more coke, Craig entered into negotiations with the RMB guys. If we rode together for the next leg, we'd stand a better chance of catching some of the teams ahead. In principle, everyone was on board with the plan and we set off for the Neverender. However, as soon as the road went up, the RMB guys started to ride away from us - our agreement in tatters. Again, our hopes of catching those ahead of us started to fade. But we did have one trump card up our sleeves. Like the safety instruction manual at the Chernobyl nuclear plant, few people actually read the race booklet that we get at registration. Most of the booklet is filled with rather meaningless info about time penalties, food at checkpoints and the correct way to mount your race number. However, hidden amongst all superfluous info, like a diamond in a haystack, is a very important tidbit. Something along the lines of "At the fork in the road, go left". On the surface, it's nothing earth shattering, but miss that one turn and you'll be lucky to ever see civilisation ever again. And, you can bet that some first timer team will accept the challenge of exploring the great unknown. So while The Chernobyl Brick Layers didn't actually catch and pass anyone, we'd moved up 4 or 5 places by the time we got into Checkpoint 6. We'd also ridden our way back across to the the RMB guys, Captain Craig dropping mini nuclear bombs all the way up the Neverender.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-z_-jqQZMiqI/V774niaEbUI/AAAAAAAAwJo/FhykuQmLFpAjQ29yqjuYP4AalNrbqui2ACPcB/s1600/image2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-z_-jqQZMiqI/V774niaEbUI/AAAAAAAAwJo/FhykuQmLFpAjQ29yqjuYP4AalNrbqui2ACPcB/s1600/image2.JPG" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The MAC, in pretty decent condition.</td></tr></tbody></table>With the lights of Jeffery's Bay almost visible on the horizon, we had one last leg to go. Our thoughts now were on how we were going to ditch the RMB guys - the fragile alliance now over. I set a steady pace on the front, trying to make life tough for Team RMB. One particular effort up the Mini Mac showed their team weakness while at the same time hurting Captain Craig. Now I'm not sure if I awoke the sleeping dragon, or if I triggered his desire for vengeance, but as soon as the we crested that final climb, Captain Craig reintroduced us all to his 46 tooth chainring. The RMB guys were bouncing around like hyperactive kids full of E numbers - their legs spinning at impossible revolutions. And still Captain Craig drove us on, The Chenobyl Brick Layers diving into the final single track first. And just as I was about to pop, we got our gap. Time to put on the big boy underpants and harden up. Through the twists and turns we held our advantage, eventually crossing the line in 9:39, and 17th place.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hp9w_yFhxPE/V777dr-MENI/AAAAAAAAwKQ/fPotHWaoLKgNHQuFyt8tA3AvCDqDiev8gCPcB/s1600/13925910_10154306629556425_6566771224799064092_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hp9w_yFhxPE/V777dr-MENI/AAAAAAAAwKQ/fPotHWaoLKgNHQuFyt8tA3AvCDqDiev8gCPcB/s1600/13925910_10154306629556425_6566771224799064092_o.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Now this is a bike race</td></tr></tbody></table>Last Minute Charles met us with warm clothes, some snacks, and more importantly, some cold beer. Although we weren't entirely happy with the result, we were happy to have survived another adventure together. More importantly, we'd made it through lucky number 13 without a complete nuclear meltdown. I'm off to enjoy my After Baviaans - till next year.<br /><br /></div> <a class="embedly-card" href="https://www.relive.cc/view/674984623">Relive 'Baviaans #13'</a><script async src="//cdn.embedly.com/widgets/platform.js" charset="UTF-8"></script><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/VeloTales/~4/8YuWLd5ok4g" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Velouriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06667777448042670759noreply@blogger.com0http://www.velotales.com/2016/08/trans-baviaans-2016.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5990819476840975001.post-58374529743859182832016-08-02T10:29:00.000+02:002016-08-02T10:29:01.597+02:00France 2016<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Say what you like about the French, but when it comes to bikes and cycling, they get it. And I'm not just talking about the skinny lycra-clad pro wannabe cyclists. Anyone on two wheels is treated with respect, from those skinny lycra-clad pro wannabes, to crazy long distance randonneurs, from daily commuters to weekend warriors.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Y4AZL9DApYo/V3AuC1oCEeI/AAAAAAAAuKc/gPehrNs0d-0cVQHKvXTr9_Jzt6w-jAZxgCPcB/s1600/IMG_20160626_151639.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Y4AZL9DApYo/V3AuC1oCEeI/AAAAAAAAuKc/gPehrNs0d-0cVQHKvXTr9_Jzt6w-jAZxgCPcB/s1600/IMG_20160626_151639.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Quiet country roads, and hills!</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7qEEg4ZS01U/V6BUgofVpkI/AAAAAAAAvQw/Go3LfGT76F4TO_8q7h9lOIoVg4q8qYKQwCKgB/s1600/IMG_20160704_130827.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7qEEg4ZS01U/V6BUgofVpkI/AAAAAAAAvQw/Go3LfGT76F4TO_8q7h9lOIoVg4q8qYKQwCKgB/s1600/IMG_20160704_130827.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Solo adventures in the French countryside</td></tr></tbody></table>It's unnerving at first to have an 18 wheeler truck drive behind you for kilometers on end, grinding away in second gear as the driver waits for an opportunity to overtake. And by overtake, I don't mean the South African definition of give a warning blast on the hooter and then proceed at full speed regardless, passing with millimeters to spare. &nbsp;The French definition of overtaking is the same for all road users - wait until the oncoming lane is clear, indicate, pull over into the oncoming lane, pass the cyclist/tractor/horse/camper van, indicate, return to lane. While we're begging for passing space legislation of just one metre, the French give 1.5 metres. Which is plenty when you see how narrow some of their roads are.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7dKu63WhfTQ/V4JJVHx4evI/AAAAAAAAurw/AtK_E7M19jUETkkhYLFAAZy40vZkBLi7wCPcB/s1600/IMG_20160709_132038.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7dKu63WhfTQ/V4JJVHx4evI/AAAAAAAAurw/AtK_E7M19jUETkkhYLFAAZy40vZkBLi7wCPcB/s1600/IMG_20160709_132038.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Emergency water stop</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">And it's not just about road safety. Cycling is part of their lifestyle, their culture. The easiest way to strike up a conversation with a French person is to do so with your bike nearby. For some reason, a bicycle is like a secret symbol or mystic handshake that opens the doors to an exclusive club. I've had whole conversations about cycling, the Tour de France, bicycles and bike riders with French people while not understanding a single word. These conversations usually involve lots of arm waving, some wild gesticulating at bicycle parts, a random French word here and there, and smiles all round.</span></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-e3UY4kqrVPM/V5HgdGd2XjI/AAAAAAAAvMo/bYE1umL8OTIDa0aJGT9XQLxaVTS95dEOwCPcB/s1600/20160708_140904.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-e3UY4kqrVPM/V5HgdGd2XjI/AAAAAAAAvMo/bYE1umL8OTIDa0aJGT9XQLxaVTS95dEOwCPcB/s1600/20160708_140904.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">TDF - fun for the whole family</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-YK1SOL1Ldx0/V5HgdBWwEgI/AAAAAAAAu_Y/VuxCKcbR1zsFlD58yU40Si4yNJb0nAOAQCPcB/s1600/image.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-YK1SOL1Ldx0/V5HgdBWwEgI/AAAAAAAAu_Y/VuxCKcbR1zsFlD58yU40Si4yNJb0nAOAQCPcB/s1600/image.jpeg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kids, firemen, foreigners</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Jxk6r5RAnfQ/V3_Yi3HBj9I/AAAAAAAAuoc/qhELEBVcBL8PiZZH6TjbB9IZBHM5CD_kgCPcB/s1600/20160708_152410-EFFECTS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Jxk6r5RAnfQ/V3_Yi3HBj9I/AAAAAAAAuoc/qhELEBVcBL8PiZZH6TjbB9IZBHM5CD_kgCPcB/s1600/20160708_152410-EFFECTS.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Glamour shot</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WxKr3sFUvOc/V5HgdCFQBWI/AAAAAAAAu_Y/R4JyYwPXLfAO8BAZTmeEINJCioCvQ6L6wCPcB/s1600/20160708_152402%25280%2529-ANIMATION.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WxKr3sFUvOc/V5HgdCFQBWI/AAAAAAAAu_Y/R4JyYwPXLfAO8BAZTmeEINJCioCvQ6L6wCPcB/s1600/20160708_152402%25280%2529-ANIMATION.gif" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Whoosh!</td></tr></tbody></table>Where else would an entire village come to a standstill in a carnival atmosphere? Entire communities celebrating the passing of the Tour de France. Kids on jumping castles, families lining the streets, local craft beer flowing.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-KhNkwJDJ8YU/V333A6rINlI/AAAAAAAAuko/uDXFAxh2PBInWCa3mL2P2OfMOntVApbogCPcB/s1600/IMG_20160706_121626.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-KhNkwJDJ8YU/V333A6rINlI/AAAAAAAAuko/uDXFAxh2PBInWCa3mL2P2OfMOntVApbogCPcB/s1600/IMG_20160706_121626.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dane 0 - Tourmalet 1</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MQgGBKvCam4/V5HgdcCbAQI/AAAAAAAAu_Y/AI-EPSvraUMKAURRNXzIo0QBuH4SjFJOACPcB/s1600/20160706_121211.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MQgGBKvCam4/V5HgdcCbAQI/AAAAAAAAu_Y/AI-EPSvraUMKAURRNXzIo0QBuH4SjFJOACPcB/s1600/20160706_121211.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spectacular</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">The French take a pride in knowing that foreigners have travelled halfway around the world just to come and cycle in their beautiful country, and they've embraced this. Whether you're climbing the legendary climbs of the Tour de France, or just cruising the country lanes, you're a guest in their country and they treat you like one.</span></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xIMLxwXCRHI/V5HgdUX_TdI/AAAAAAAAu_Y/8wpk54Rjdns_nPIkWEhx7M6Tu9PRK3f9wCPcB/s1600/image.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xIMLxwXCRHI/V5HgdUX_TdI/AAAAAAAAu_Y/8wpk54Rjdns_nPIkWEhx7M6Tu9PRK3f9wCPcB/s1600/image.jpeg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A family affair</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-aCN9YEPVvsg/V333Ay4DdwI/AAAAAAAAuko/ak2KyGLPkrgPwnUZkcysvQJs_M_9r2kxwCPcB/s1600/IMG_20160706_123758.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-aCN9YEPVvsg/V333Ay4DdwI/AAAAAAAAuko/ak2KyGLPkrgPwnUZkcysvQJs_M_9r2kxwCPcB/s1600/IMG_20160706_123758.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">All you need is a bike</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /></div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/VeloTales/~4/OZHsRY5nf2Y" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Velouriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06667777448042670759noreply@blogger.com1http://www.velotales.com/2016/08/france-2016.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5990819476840975001.post-79845664891138798742016-04-21T19:59:00.000+02:002016-04-21T20:11:21.056+02:00The 36One 2016<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">This is a stupid, stupid event. Nothing about this bike ride makes sense. It's ridiculously long, through dusty semidesert conditions, and it starts just as the sun goes down. And yet 780 people thought that this sounded like a good way to spend a weekend.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-m9wssmGOV-w/VxjnoVfgFbI/AAAAAAAArzQ/fyY3oNu7k3o1HRunSvrHaITcOCO6Ho5wgCKgB/s1600/13029484_842448285899119_6240746007205532892_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-m9wssmGOV-w/VxjnoVfgFbI/AAAAAAAArzQ/fyY3oNu7k3o1HRunSvrHaITcOCO6Ho5wgCKgB/s1600/13029484_842448285899119_6240746007205532892_o.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Crazy crazy stupid</td></tr></tbody></table>After vowing, not once, but twice, to never ever do this event again, both Captain Craig and I were back for more self-inflicted misery. We had a team title to defend, although admittedly, neither of us were talking up our chances too much. We both prefer the understated approach of seeing how it plays out on the day - it's so far and so long that anything can happen.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Y0gAFxozqZs/VxjnoTVnKrI/AAAAAAAArzQ/uQxwAORla5E6wN4hPfF_D5HCiOjsIe_xgCKgB/s1600/11224646_842449869232294_4267071756182146782_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Y0gAFxozqZs/VxjnoTVnKrI/AAAAAAAArzQ/uQxwAORla5E6wN4hPfF_D5HCiOjsIe_xgCKgB/s1600/11224646_842449869232294_4267071756182146782_o.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spot Team Lunatic Express</td></tr></tbody></table>This year, Team <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Uganda_Railway#Lunatic_Express">Lunatic Express</a>&nbsp;had built up a bit of a cult following, mainly because of Captain Craig (aka Captain Chaos) and his light antics of <a href="http://www.velotales.com/2015/04/the-36one-2015.html">2015</a>. And while some of the things that my partner gets up to do cause a certain amount of stress, I generally tolerate most of it as it always makes for an interesting blog post or anecdote afterwards. Together, we're the perfect combo of Yin and Yang - one cautious and pedantic and the other footloose and carefree.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-L4QqrVISpxo/Vxjn9SoQDmI/AAAAAAAArzc/8y8yYers0QIe6C0k4PwZKqQ02QAEdafrwCKgB/s1600/IMG-20160417-WA0009.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="540" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-L4QqrVISpxo/Vxjn9SoQDmI/AAAAAAAArzc/8y8yYers0QIe6C0k4PwZKqQ02QAEdafrwCKgB/s1600/IMG-20160417-WA0009.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Team Lunatic Express</td></tr></tbody></table>As the sun dipped lower in the sky, we lined up on the startline of the 36One Challenge with hundreds of similarly crazy minded cyclists. Unlike other normal events, the air was thick with apprehension and nervousness - some riders not entirely sure they would ever see their loved ones again. And despite having done this twice before, I was one of those riders - 16 hours of bike riding lay ahead of me. That's 16 hours for something to go wrong, 16 hours to ruin the race strategy, and more importantly, 16 hours for Captain Craig to come up with a unique way of either injuring himself or having to survive on barely serviceable equipment. And as I stood there, resisting the urge to go to the toilet for the 5th time, it was reassuring to see that each and every rider had their doubts, their demons, their worries.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8bb_rNQ1_Pg/VxjnodRAFjI/AAAAAAAArzQ/wRqEHaj7UwYFwBcc5SgIZBCzlEzl0vSUACKgB/s1600/13062989_843215875822360_3557188886946697757_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8bb_rNQ1_Pg/VxjnodRAFjI/AAAAAAAArzQ/wRqEHaj7UwYFwBcc5SgIZBCzlEzl0vSUACKgB/s1600/13062989_843215875822360_3557188886946697757_o.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The unofficial member of Team Lunatic Express - Halfway Robertson</td></tr></tbody></table>Right from the gun 5 teams formed a little lead group at the head of the race. After taking a turn on the front, I settled into the paceline while Captain Craig spent some of his pent up energy near the front. This gave me a chance to suss out the competition. We had the skinny RMB race snakes riding a crafty strategy early on. There were the guys on orange bikes pushing the pace a bit, but looking to the rest of us for cues. And finally, there were the guys in orange kit lurking at the back, keeping their heads down, silently observing the small group.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1989R81L7Xw/VxjnoX86fvI/AAAAAAAArzQ/_brvnnG2F3U0g9_WRbnRdYK52W4zNZD5QCKgB/s1600/12998210_842462499231031_414724304983707142_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1989R81L7Xw/VxjnoX86fvI/AAAAAAAArzQ/_brvnnG2F3U0g9_WRbnRdYK52W4zNZD5QCKgB/s1600/12998210_842462499231031_414724304983707142_o.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's a tough weekend out for everyone</td></tr></tbody></table>An hour in and this small group was shattered on the first real climb, leaving the skinny RMB race snakes and Team Lunatic Express at the front of affairs. This left us in a rather tricky position - drive on to maintain the gap over the chasers with the risk of overdoing it, or stick to the game plan of riding cautiously for the first 6 hours. Few things in life bring Captain Craig as much satisfaction as dishing out a lesson in bike riding, and usually I'm quite happy to indulge him, as long as he doesn't overdo it. But something wasn't quite right. We're rather similar riders, both fond of pushing heavy gears, grinding our way up climbs, and cruising along with our diesel engines, and yet, for the first time in ages we appeared to be completely out of sync. It was a theme that would last the entire ride - when Captain Craig was feeling good, I was suffering, contemplating self sabotage, and as quickly as I'd recover, he'd fade, entering his own private hell of torment.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-swunURZWY_w/VxjnoSkZxPI/AAAAAAAArzQ/f-w_1tjcpmYmKyVNNcttE5pmX8jib11dwCKgB/s1600/12983873_842459695897978_1519757624833759460_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-swunURZWY_w/VxjnoSkZxPI/AAAAAAAArzQ/f-w_1tjcpmYmKyVNNcttE5pmX8jib11dwCKgB/s1600/12983873_842459695897978_1519757624833759460_o.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Finding beauty in negative spaces</td></tr></tbody></table>With the skinny RMB race snakes starting to hurt me up the climbs I had to ask Captain Craig to back off. As simple as this sounds, it's usually quite an involved process, mainly because Captain Craig has the hearing of an 80 year old. What would normally be a quiet word is instead a broadcast for all and sundry to hear - "Craig, please slow down - I'm feeling kak". I often get the volume wrong the first time, and have to repeat myself even louder, further embarrassing myself. It's right up there with announcing to the world at the top of your voice that you're a Liverpool supporter, or that you think the Bulls look great in pink. Not cool.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-uTr5l5rTxUA/VxjnoVcEx0I/AAAAAAAArzQ/XcGjZVN2liQvCOt0F7VwIsqSt4KPLuAGwCKgB/s1600/12977158_842450235898924_6796959720161739027_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-uTr5l5rTxUA/VxjnoVcEx0I/AAAAAAAArzQ/XcGjZVN2liQvCOt0F7VwIsqSt4KPLuAGwCKgB/s1600/12977158_842450235898924_6796959720161739027_o.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Halfway giving the Eye</td></tr></tbody></table>Captain Craig got the message as we eventually waved goodbye to the skinny RMB race snakes and settled into what we do best - cruising along at our own pace. We don't talk much, mostly because Captain Craig can't hear anything, and all I can hear is wind noise, thanks to my rather generously proportioned ears. Occasionally the outside world would intrude upon our little puddles of light, a frog hopping like his life depended on it, a rabbit running from an unseen monster, the mangy dog having so much fun barking at cyclists in the middle of the night, but mostly it was just us and a slowly setting half moon. As tough and as stupid as this ride is - these are the moments that keep us coming back for more - the quiet solitude, the shared silence.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1ZkxFl__WZQ/VxjnodeCkOI/AAAAAAAArzQ/U8HWfQ0gEI8Q-8vfsYckOgvxhulr-s-GQCKgB/s1600/13002342_842461309231150_4921229784454935756_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1ZkxFl__WZQ/VxjnodeCkOI/AAAAAAAArzQ/U8HWfQ0gEI8Q-8vfsYckOgvxhulr-s-GQCKgB/s1600/13002342_842461309231150_4921229784454935756_o.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spectators come in all shapes and sizes</td></tr></tbody></table>While I hate to admit it, the best aspect of riding in a team are the stories we have to tell afterwards. My partners are usually the stars in the drama that unfolds, from lights that don't work, to spectacular crashes. I'm the observer, the spectator to their antics. Not at this race. In a testament to how good the food at the checkpoints was, ranging from ostrich sosaties to koeksisters, banana bread to date balls, I broke a spoke not far after the halfway mark. And while I've been called a big guy in the past, the message was finally sinking in - this was the fifth broken spoke in 3 weeks. The cycling gods were subtly telling me to cut back on the Nutella!<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hAThdTBteZc/VxjnoUJZpSI/AAAAAAAArzQ/qBvNM4EmRQslnRrmAd2gDJ_dHH9dcC9FACKgB/s1600/13055808_842450689232212_2856785546986217487_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hAThdTBteZc/VxjnoUJZpSI/AAAAAAAArzQ/qBvNM4EmRQslnRrmAd2gDJ_dHH9dcC9FACKgB/s1600/13055808_842450689232212_2856785546986217487_o.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Halfway enjoying the delicacies on offer</td></tr></tbody></table>Nursing a wobbly wheel we continued to make good progress, taking turns to dip in and out of bad patches. During a prolonged stretch of misery, just as I was contemplating a silent protest to the unpleasantness that Captain Craig was dishing out, I punctured. Weight issues aside, the irony was that we'd just caught the skinny RMB race snakes again, having last seen them 6 hours previously. We quickly bombed the wheel and set off on the chase, only for the tyre to once again go flat. Time to pop in a tube. As I ripped the tube off my seatpost, green slime spurted everywhere. My spare tube had been on my bike for so long that it had perished and was literally crumbling in my hands. No problem - Captain Craig's tube would do the trick, except he didn't have a tube on him. So there we were, in the middle of nowhere, with no tube and no sign of help, as we watched the lights of the skinny RMB race snakes disappear up the road.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dlMey1tkp9U/VxjnoTvOGPI/AAAAAAAArzQ/FsQqdCJEfI8chCTieeqF10GCXCvUoznWgCKgB/s1600/12998388_843216482488966_6473272043237982031_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dlMey1tkp9U/VxjnoTvOGPI/AAAAAAAArzQ/FsQqdCJEfI8chCTieeqF10GCXCvUoznWgCKgB/s1600/12998388_843216482488966_6473272043237982031_o.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Post race story telling</td></tr></tbody></table>A couple minutes later a herd of bicycle lights appeared further down the road - salvation was on its way. Or so we thought. Fifteen riders must have ridden past us without so much as an utterance of "Are you ok?". And they say roadies are the unfriendly ones. Eventually, the leading lady, Hannele Steyn-Kotze stopped to offer some assistance, but didn't have a spare tube. Same with Henning van Wyk - another old school mountain biker with proper race etiquette. Thirteen minutes later, while watching our race slip away, we eventually got a tube. Rider 307 - you are a rare find in this modern age.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-aBdxsAmlrSQ/VxjnoSd1MdI/AAAAAAAArzQ/BKS7VPMcI0cgCqm_P8m9n1LLfiP-BEsQwCKgB/s1600/13054984_842450875898860_6822737874530833955_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-aBdxsAmlrSQ/VxjnoSd1MdI/AAAAAAAArzQ/BKS7VPMcI0cgCqm_P8m9n1LLfiP-BEsQwCKgB/s1600/13054984_842450875898860_6822737874530833955_o.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rider 307 - we salute you!</td></tr></tbody></table>With my tyre issues solved, and adrenalin coursing through my veins, we set off in pursuit of our podium spot. Our rough estimate had us in forth place with about 100 kilometres to go. Certainly enough time to get back onto the podium. The only catch being that we still had the imposing climb of Rooiberg to deal with. To compound matters, Captain Craig's good patch was fading quickly and the memories of the previous year's climb were flooding back fast. In a classic example of "going slow to go fast" we backed off the pace completely and rode at a slow, steady crawl up the hill. One by one, we reeled in the lights ahead of us. Broken bodies with vacant stares greeted us as we plodded along, and as we crested the climb we caught and passed the skinny RMB race snakes. The race was back on!<br /><blockquote align="center" class="twitter-tweet" data-lang="en"><div dir="ltr" lang="en">Team Lunatic Express of <a href="https://twitter.com/captaincraigSA">@captaincraigSA</a> and <a href="https://twitter.com/velotales">@velotales</a> survived another drama filled <a href="https://twitter.com/The36ONE">@The36ONE</a>. What a crazy event! <a href="https://t.co/xV07iZY72F">pic.twitter.com/xV07iZY72F</a></div>— Dane Walsh (@velotales) <a href="https://twitter.com/velotales/status/721576348649725952">April 17, 2016</a></blockquote><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script> A frantic decent and a mad team time trial later we rolled into Checkpoint 3 just as the sun was rising. Captain Craig ordered me to get some tea, and when I told him to get his own damn tea, he told me it was for me. Apparently I ride quite well after a good cup of tea. We scoffed down some food, sipped on the tea, ditched our lights and hit the road as soon as we could, hoping to maintain our advantage over the skinny RMB race snakes. The final 80kms are brutal, but we figured that if we could hide out of sight we'd have a good chance hanging onto third spot.<br /><blockquote align="center" class="twitter-tweet" data-lang="en"><div dir="ltr" lang="en">"<a href="https://twitter.com/UrsulaDuPlooy">@UrsulaDuPlooy</a>: Team winners- Maza &amp; Sipho, RMB Change a lifers <a href="https://twitter.com/The36ONE">@The36ONE</a> mtb ultra endurance race in Oudthoorn. <a href="https://t.co/wDirlxJLVi">pic.twitter.com/wDirlxJLVi</a>"</div>— martin dreyer (@martindreyer3) <a href="https://twitter.com/martindreyer3/status/721313332121219073">April 16, 2016</a></blockquote><div style="text-align: center;">Almost winners and worthy opponents - the skinny RMB race snakes</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>We plodded along, slowly conquering one torturous hill after the another, knowing that if we got to the final 40kms of flat farm and district roads, there'd be almost no chance of any skinny race snakes catching us on our preferred race terrain. With white line fever that lasted for around two hours we slowly hoovered up any riders ahead of us in the last desperate bid to improve on our overall standing. The town of Oudtshoorn eventually emerged from the mid morning haze as we finally crossed the line in 16h53, utterly spent and in dire need of a refreshing beer. In the background, through the hurt, sweat and grime, the announcer was going on about the arrival of the first team. Through the disoriented murk we eventually figured out that he was talking about us - Team Lunatic Express. Despite our (my) mid race wobble, we'd come back strong enough to defend our title. Suddenly it seemed all worth it, and that beer tasted extra good!<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-23of1bD_A0c/VxjnoZoIzGI/AAAAAAAArzQ/BDj3Svkw6Kgodx96FCv2wCI3ZfoMR8CcgCKgB/s1600/13029456_842512739226007_2366671559518959929_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-23of1bD_A0c/VxjnoZoIzGI/AAAAAAAArzQ/BDj3Svkw6Kgodx96FCv2wCI3ZfoMR8CcgCKgB/s1600/13029456_842512739226007_2366671559518959929_o.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The skinny RMB race snakes of&nbsp;Maza &amp; Sipho in 2nd, and Team Lunatic Express in 1st</td></tr></tbody></table>In previous years I've always been hesitant to commit to doing this crazy stupid event again, but I am already thinking about next year.<br /><br /></div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/VeloTales/~4/CPjI1EHzRpk" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Velouriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06667777448042670759noreply@blogger.com1http://www.velotales.com/2016/04/the-36one-2016.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5990819476840975001.post-21043927817741402282016-02-13T14:23:00.001+02:002016-02-13T14:33:14.871+02:00The Big Day Out 2016<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">In just its third year, the Big Day Out is already becoming an institution in the local cycling community. As the summer temperatures pick up, so to do the murmurings about this crazy ride.<br /><br />Essentially, there are three rules for the Big Day Out:<br /><ol style="text-align: left;"><li>It has to be a obscenely long ride</li><li>It has to be a near perfect day</li><li>It's by invite only</li></ol><div><br /><blockquote align="center" class="twitter-tweet" data-lang="en"><div dir="ltr" lang="en">The <a href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/BigDayOut?src=hash">#BigDayOut</a> is a go! Weather - check! Route - check! Fellow crazies - <a href="https://twitter.com/captaincraigSA">@captaincraigSA</a> &amp; <a href="https://twitter.com/warrenrobertson">@warrenrobertson</a> - check! <a href="https://t.co/gtQk6W8C2q">pic.twitter.com/gtQk6W8C2q</a></div>— Dane Walsh (@velotales) <a href="https://twitter.com/velotales/status/696672546968698880">February 8, 2016</a></blockquote><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script> Plotting a route is no problem as we're spoilt for choice when it comes to amazing places to ride. Finding the perfect day entails watching the long term weather forecasts on countless websites and spotting a day with very little wind. The catch is that such days are often accompanied by temperatures in the high 30s to low 40s - Captain Craig's worst nightmare! Finally, the committee reserves the right to invite additional riders. Applications pour in from all over the globe, and the committee diligently sifts through all the motivations, considering the merits of each and every one. A short list is compiled, and the committee then votes. To date, no suitable candidates have made it past the vote. Until now. Halfway Robertson wrote a very moving essay expressing his desire to join the Big Day Out. Terms like "greatest accomplishment", "legendary status", "burning desire" and "give my life meaning" littered his prose. He even wrote a poem. In Haiku.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div>the road goes upwards</div><div>conversation stops, puff, pant</div><div>the silence of hills*</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Application accepted.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XGaE5QbTkiM/VryWMRsMwJI/AAAAAAAApNI/_8aXSZRNl_Q/s1600/IMG_20160209_180939.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XGaE5QbTkiM/VryWMRsMwJI/AAAAAAAApNI/_8aXSZRNl_Q/s1600/IMG_20160209_180939.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Big Day Out 2016</td></tr></tbody></table>The original objective of the Big Day Out was to ride further than we'd ever gone before in one day. That meant something in excess of 365kms. In two years of trying&nbsp;we were unable to achieve this - the <a href="http://www.velotales.com/2014/03/2014-big-day-out.html">first year</a> being scuttled by severe heat and a nasty headwind, and the second year ending with a broken derailleur. Third time lucky.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HkLxKBonLmM/Vr8IWkRws3I/AAAAAAAApVg/LoCchg-o9O4/s1600/IMG_3559.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="540" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HkLxKBonLmM/Vr8IWkRws3I/AAAAAAAApVg/LoCchg-o9O4/s320/IMG_3559.JPG" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bikes packed - ready for a Big Day Out</td></tr></tbody></table>The day kicked off at 5am and we made good progress for about an hour before the wind started picking up. Every single weather source had promised that the wind would not blow, and yet here we were battling into a stiff gale 40kms into a 369km ride. At our current progress, we'd need a week to make the route! In addition, the first 180kms are supposed to be easy, just gently knocking off the kilometres before the temperatures get too hot. Instead we were slogging away at a snail's pace into a gale, our legs and minds both taking strain.<br /><br /><blockquote align="center" class="twitter-tweet" data-lang="en"><div dir="ltr" lang="en">120kms into the <a href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/BigDayOut?src=hash">#BigDayOut</a> in Wolsley and we're being battered by the wind. <a href="https://twitter.com/captaincraigSA">@captaincraigSA</a> &amp; <a href="https://twitter.com/warrenrobertson">@warrenrobertson</a>. <a href="https://t.co/ZDfWMZF0dI">pic.twitter.com/ZDfWMZF0dI</a></div>— Dane Walsh (@velotales) <a href="https://twitter.com/velotales/status/696965101610520576">February 9, 2016</a></blockquote><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script> <br />We finally made Wolseley feeling rather worse for wear, already the doubts about successfully completing the Big Day Out lurking at the backs of our minds. But if there is one thing all three participants of the Big Day Out are good at, it's persistence in the face of adversity. A short stop, a quick grumble, and we were off again - secretly hoping the cycling gods would smile on our endeavour and do something about the wind.<br /><br /></div><blockquote align="center" class="twitter-tweet" data-conversation="none" data-lang="en"><div dir="ltr" lang="en"><a href="https://twitter.com/leoruns">@leoruns</a> <a href="https://twitter.com/velotales">@velotales</a> <a href="https://twitter.com/warrenrobertson">@warrenrobertson</a> between us I'm a bit worried I'm not going to make 150km at this rate ! <a href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/ridelots?src=hash">#ridelots</a></div>— Craig Edwards (@captaincraigSA) <a href="https://twitter.com/captaincraigSA/status/696966453275332608">February 9, 2016</a></blockquote><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script> <br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">As we started the scenic climb up Bainskloof Pass, our prayers were answered. The wind was now a tailwind, and for the first time that day we got a hint of just how warm it was going to get, much to Captain Craig's dismay. There is something special about riding up Bainskloof - the twisty road, the imposing mountains, the lure of the crystal clear pools down below, and the isolation. Apart from the odd car, it was just the three of us in the middle of nowhere, riding bikes.<br /><br /><blockquote align="center" class="twitter-tweet" data-lang="en"><div dir="ltr" lang="en">Wellington 166kms. 35c. 200kms to go <a href="https://t.co/O4jaRt13Pk">pic.twitter.com/O4jaRt13Pk</a></div>— Dane Walsh (@velotales) <a href="https://twitter.com/velotales/status/696996955587788800">February 9, 2016</a></blockquote><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script> <br />Before long, we rejoined civilisation as we descended the pass down into Wellington. A quick stock up on much needed fluids, and a chance to get our heads around the big climb of the day that lay ahead of us - Du Toit's Kloof Pass.<br /><br /><blockquote align="center" class="twitter-tweet" data-conversation="none" data-lang="en"><div dir="ltr" lang="en"><a href="https://twitter.com/velotales">@velotales</a> <a href="https://twitter.com/warrenrobertson">@warrenrobertson</a> <a href="https://twitter.com/leoruns">@leoruns</a> 172km down Dutoits pass up next <a href="https://t.co/JAsEE4uglD">pic.twitter.com/JAsEE4uglD</a></div>— Craig Edwards (@captaincraigSA) <a href="https://twitter.com/captaincraigSA/status/697001852504829953">February 9, 2016</a></blockquote><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script> <br />The main climb of the day would take us just short of an hour as we trudged uphill in the midday heat. The mercury climbed steadily, eventually settling at 40C, as we now longed for the cooling gale from earlier that morning. Halfway up the climb we passed the halfway point for the day, and while this would normally be a reason to celebrate, knowing that another 184.5kms lay ahead was enough to dampen even the most optimistic of us. We were also faced with another tough decision - once we went over the top of the pass there was no short cut home. We were committed to 175kms. We didn't think twice.<br /><br /><blockquote align="center" class="twitter-tweet" data-lang="en"><div dir="ltr" lang="und"><a href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/BigDayOut?src=hash">#BigDayOut</a> <a href="https://t.co/uy5KWjtAhx">pic.twitter.com/uy5KWjtAhx</a></div>— Dane Walsh (@velotales) <a href="https://twitter.com/velotales/status/697006388640423937">February 9, 2016</a></blockquote><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script> <br />An interesting thing happens when you ride on unknown roads in the heat - you're always on the lookout for water as you never really know when you'll find that next oasis. As we descended the pass, with at least 30 kilometres to go to the next town, I caught sight of a tap. At that very moment, nothing else mattered apart from what that tap meant. Sustenance, survival, happiness.<br /><br /><blockquote align="center" class="twitter-tweet" data-lang="en"><div dir="ltr" lang="en">Impromptu stop at the Hugenot weigh station for much needed water. <a href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/BigDayOut?src=hash">#BigDayOut</a> <a href="https://twitter.com/captaincraigSA">@captaincraigSA</a> <a href="https://twitter.com/warrenrobertson">@warrenrobertson</a> <a href="https://t.co/z6Tc5ot3QA">pic.twitter.com/z6Tc5ot3QA</a></div>— Dane Walsh (@velotales) <a href="https://twitter.com/velotales/status/697023951147499521">February 9, 2016</a></blockquote><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script> <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QwPX16txhNc/VryWMeHAwlI/AAAAAAAApNE/R_ZoRAAAtY8/s1600/IMG_20160209_114149.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QwPX16txhNc/VryWMeHAwlI/AAAAAAAApNE/R_ZoRAAAtY8/s320/IMG_20160209_114149.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mixed emotions from Halfway Robertson making the halfway mark</td></tr></tbody></table>Halfway Robertson, having passed the halfway point of our Big Day Out, got a serious case of burger fever and dragged the two senior members through the&nbsp;Molenaar River Valley on towards Rawsonville, and our scheduled lunch stop. In hindsight, Rawsonville was possibly not the best place to expect a meal worthy of the Big Day Out. After scouring the main road for gourmet establishments, we had to settle for the best out of a long list of dodgy choices - Nikki's Take Away. The only saving grace was the price of the soft drinks - R6.00 for 500ml! I felt like we were back in the Nineties (although some will say that the entire Rawsonville is stuck in the Nineties). After wolfing down a burger that we knew we would encounter again, we set off for Villiersdorp, 69kms away.<br /><br /><blockquote align="center" class="twitter-tweet" data-lang="en"><div dir="ltr" lang="en">If we die (not because of the bike riding), it's because we ate here. <a href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/BigDayOut?src=hash">#BigDayOut</a> Rawsonville <a href="https://t.co/9lm6KMTGQa">pic.twitter.com/9lm6KMTGQa</a></div>— Dane Walsh (@velotales) <a href="https://twitter.com/velotales/status/697036921705521156">February 9, 2016</a></blockquote><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script> <br />I think there is unanimous agreement when I say that the next section was the worst section of the day. It wasn't the toughest section of the day, nor was it the hottest, but I think it fell into that zone of self doubt. We'd done 220 kilometres, and despite only having 150 kilometres to go, we still couldn't see the end of the tunnel. As we slogged on, with the temperature hitting 37C at 5pm, our spirits started to waiver. And just as our shoulders were sagging and our heads slumping, the quaintest little farm stall appeared. With a tap! What followed was surreal, and must have appeared quite comical to any onlookers. Captain Craig and Halfway Robertson proceeded to worship that tap like it was some ancient life giving deity. And in return, the tap blessed them with a cooling, refreshing elixir. Suddenly, Villiersdorp seemed possible again, and we started to believe that we'd make the final 80 kilometres.<br /><br /><blockquote align="center" class="twitter-tweet" data-lang="en"><div dir="ltr" lang="en">Love at first sight. <a href="https://twitter.com/captaincraigSA">@captaincraigSA</a> and <a href="https://twitter.com/warrenrobertson">@warrenrobertson</a> worshipping a tap! <a href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/BigDayOut?src=hash">#BigDayOut</a> <a href="https://t.co/ODBTqY1KD7">pic.twitter.com/ODBTqY1KD7</a></div>— Dane Walsh (@velotales) <a href="https://twitter.com/velotales/status/697083748408545281">February 9, 2016</a></blockquote><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script> Just as things were looking up, Halfway punctured - a reminder that despite only having 100&nbsp;kilometres to go, we still needed some luck to go our way. With the puncture fixed we made our way to Villiersdorp up Rooihoogte Pass, the taste of Nikki's burger returning to remind us of our earlier indiscretions. Just 85&nbsp;kilometres to go.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JbYbe0Q6yno/VryWMX87XSI/AAAAAAAApNI/Sn-1WBxN4jk/s1600/IMG_20160209_163303.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JbYbe0Q6yno/VryWMX87XSI/AAAAAAAApNI/Sn-1WBxN4jk/s320/IMG_20160209_163303.jpg" width="540" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rrGA_err4ns/VryWMcsa_5I/AAAAAAAApNI/ingQCNw9T_8/s1600/IMG_20160209_180900.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rrGA_err4ns/VryWMcsa_5I/AAAAAAAApNI/ingQCNw9T_8/s320/IMG_20160209_180900.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The emotions of a Big Day Out</td></tr></tbody></table>The sun was sitting low in the sky as we headed towards Franschhoek Pass, our last big climb of the day. By now, each man was in his own private hell, dealing with his own demons. From numb toes to cramp, from sore knees to aching hands, each of us plodded our way up the climb, one pedal stroke after another. After an eternity in purgatory we reached the top, and as we witnessed a spectacular sunset, started to believe that we'd make it.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-M4eiX80Byzc/VryWMWfJylI/AAAAAAAApNI/qHf7sWMd5fc/s1600/IMG_20160209_182225.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-M4eiX80Byzc/VryWMWfJylI/AAAAAAAApNI/qHf7sWMd5fc/s320/IMG_20160209_182225.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We each drank at least 23 bottles of fluid</td></tr></tbody></table>&nbsp;It's on rides like these that you learn a lot about your mates - their character, their vulnerabilities, their stubbornness, their determination. Verbal communication gives way to body language and subtle gestures. With one look you can communicate a thousand things. Perhaps Halfway's Haiku had been prophetic!<br /><br /><blockquote align="center" class="twitter-tweet" data-lang="en"><div dir="ltr" lang="und">Pniel 337kms <a href="https://t.co/jOgKrl4U5H">pic.twitter.com/jOgKrl4U5H</a></div>— Dane Walsh (@velotales) <a href="https://twitter.com/velotales/status/697114856542093312">February 9, 2016</a></blockquote><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script> The final pass of the day - Helshoogte - lay ahead of us as the final rays of light faded. One last push and the end was within touching distance. With 17 kilometres to go we pulled in for our final snack stop of the day. As we wolfed down some much needed replenishments to the bemused stares of several onlookers, we got into a conversation with an inquisitive bystander. Given that it was well past 8pm and dark, his comment was that most cyclists do their training in the morning. You can imagine his reaction when we told him that we'd started our ride at 5am in the morning. Instant hero status. For a brief moment we felt like rock stars, or professional sportsmen, with our very own groupie. But we couldn't wallow in stardom for long, as the final stretch awaited us. A stretch that I ride home from work each day, with three annoyingly brutal little climbs.<br /><br /><blockquote align="center" class="twitter-tweet" data-lang="en"><div dir="ltr" lang="en">20kms to go. Some very broken soldiers out there today. <a href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/BigDayOut?src=hash">#BigDayOut</a> <a href="https://twitter.com/captaincraigSA">@captaincraigSA</a> <a href="https://twitter.com/warrenrobertson">@warrenrobertson</a> <a href="https://t.co/3hJWhtFEJU">pic.twitter.com/3hJWhtFEJU</a></div>— Dane Walsh (@velotales) <a href="https://twitter.com/velotales/status/697126109339611137">February 9, 2016</a></blockquote><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script> As we counted down the climbs and the remaining kilometres, our bums point blank refusing anything to do with our saddles, our hands throbbing and our toes numb, we were joined by an escourt. My wife slotted in behind us, headlights blazing and hazards flashing, like a mini parade through the dark streets of Somerset West.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fvIyCCg_IPo/VryWMX16XWI/AAAAAAAApNI/IuTiBQto2yY/s1600/IMG-20160210-WA0009.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fvIyCCg_IPo/VryWMX16XWI/AAAAAAAApNI/IuTiBQto2yY/s320/IMG-20160210-WA0009.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Homeward bound</td></tr></tbody></table>The final few kilometres, through the same dark streets we'd started this adventure on 15 hours previously, seemed to take an age. The conflicting sentiments, the sense of achievement versus the level of exhaustion and discomfort, dampened what should have a celebratory procession. But that was ok. It's what the Big Day Out is all about. And we'd finally done it!<br /><br /><blockquote align="center" class="twitter-tweet" data-lang="en"><div dir="ltr" lang="en">It's done. <a href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/BigDayOut?src=hash">#BigDayOut</a> is officially over. Thanks to <a href="https://twitter.com/captaincraigSA">@captaincraigSA</a> &amp; <a href="https://twitter.com/warrenrobertson">@warrenrobertson</a> for a amazing adventure! <a href="https://t.co/a6jTKWXsmH">pic.twitter.com/a6jTKWXsmH</a></div>— Dane Walsh (@velotales) <a href="https://twitter.com/velotales/status/697141660006875136">February 9, 2016</a></blockquote><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script></div><iframe align="center" allowtransparency="true" frameborder="0" height="405" scrolling="no" src="https://www.strava.com/activities/489867676/embed/3615607e528965d2fcca562c5d93d00704fa4521" width="590"></iframe> <br /><div style="text-align: left;">While any thoughts of doing a Big Day Out any time soon will be quickly silenced, I'm quite sure we'll all be back for another day of making memories with mates on bikes. Applications open in January 2017.<br /><br />*Actual poet is <a href="http://www.bikereader.com/contributors/etc/haiku/BRhaiku.html">Steve Airey</a><br /><br /></div></div></div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/VeloTales/~4/CLXE2xtvyZE" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Velouriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06667777448042670759noreply@blogger.com1http://www.velotales.com/2016/02/the-big-day-out-2016.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5990819476840975001.post-27607243456266305532016-01-28T13:00:00.000+02:002016-01-28T13:41:12.306+02:00Oak Valley 24hr 2016<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">For two years I have lived with the memories of pulling out of the <a href="http://www.velotales.com/2014/02/oak-valley-24hr-2014.html">2014 Oak Valley 24hr</a> after nine hours. For two years I have wondered if I made the right decision at the time. And for two years I have tried to avoid the thought of ever doing a 24hr again. Thankfully, I had a very good reason to skip the 2015 Oak Valley 24hr - the addition of a little endurance athlete to our family.<br /><br /><blockquote class="instagram-media" data-instgrm-captioned="" data-instgrm-version="6" style="background: #fff; border-radius: 3px; border: 0; box-shadow: 0 0 1px 0 rgba(0 , 0 , 0 , 0.5) , 0 1px 10px 0 rgba(0 , 0 , 0 , 0.15); margin: 1px; max-width: 658px; padding: 0; width: 99.375%;"><div style="padding: 8px;"><div style="background: #F8F8F8; line-height: 0; margin-top: 40px; padding: 50% 0; text-align: center; width: 100%;"><div style="background: url(data:image/png; display: block; height: 44px; margin: 0 auto -44px; position: relative; top: -22px; width: 44px;"></div></div><div style="margin: 8px 0 0 0; padding: 0 4px;"><a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/yjRy0IqVNH/" style="color: black; font-family: &quot;arial&quot; , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 17px; text-decoration: none; word-wrap: break-word;" target="_blank">The Walsh family busy with a different type of 24hr challenge @velotales</a></div><div style="color: #c9c8cd; font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17px; margin-bottom: 0; margin-top: 8px; overflow: hidden; padding: 8px 0 7px; text-align: center; text-overflow: ellipsis; white-space: nowrap;">A photo posted by @amarider on <time datetime="2015-02-01T08:05:38+00:00" style="font-family: Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17px;">Feb 1, 2015 at 12:05am PST</time></div></div></blockquote><script async="" defer="" src="//platform.instagram.com/en_US/embeds.js"></script> As entries open for <a href="http://dirtopia.co.za/index.php/24-hours-of-oak-valley">Dirtopia's 24hr</a>, so too do the queries as to my participation. This year, I remained strong and determined to sit out another year, giving my confidence some more time to heal, as well spending more time with my young family. All went well until a morning in mid November where some friends successfully managed to convince me otherwise. They had thought of everything - how I could get the miles in without being an absent parent, how my wife (my backup and secret weapon) would receive additional support during the event, and how the little endurance athlete would be looked after for the duration of the event. In a moment of weakness I caved to their well laid out plans and sent the email to <a href="http://www.daisyway.co.za/">The Coach</a> - time to get fit for a 24hr event again!<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RkaZCKGgA0E/VqnY6bHyGDI/AAAAAAAAoqo/QDFvBUt5KIc/s1600/24HR_126.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RkaZCKGgA0E/VqnY6bHyGDI/AAAAAAAAoqo/QDFvBUt5KIc/s1600/24HR_126.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Back doing what I love</td></tr></tbody></table>Needless to say, The Coach was less than impressed. Eight weeks is barely enough time to get ready for The Argus, let alone a 24hr race. But, being the miracle worker that she is she devised a training program that the devil would have been proud of. And just to show that she isn't the devil, she even gave me the week off&nbsp;between Christmas and New Year. The rest of the time I spent touring the roads of the Boland for hours on end on my own, clocking up an inordinate amount of kilometres. <br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZAMHJUoHQik/VqnY6YFWGrI/AAAAAAAAoqo/xkqxosgTEsg/s1600/652.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZAMHJUoHQik/VqnY6YFWGrI/AAAAAAAAoqo/xkqxosgTEsg/s1600/652.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In the zone, tapping out the laps</td></tr></tbody></table>The easiest part of a 24hr event is the training - lots of long slow rides with the brain disengaged, letting the body toughen to the distance and acclimatise to the heat. However, as the event gets closer and closer, the mind starts to kick in. All the self doubt, the fear, the memories of the pain and suffering come flooding back, and somehow you need to harness the deluge and channel it into something resembling a plan for race day. Things to do. Things not to do. What works. What doesn't work. For several weeks the plan rolls around in your head, consuming more and more of your thoughts the nearer the event gets. Very soon you're dreaming about the 24hr, until the night before, when you most need to sleep, you lie awake running scenarios over and over through your mind.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-pEzWVfH7WnI/VqnWizm8SgI/AAAAAAAAops/X46FhCgKpEs/s1600/IMG-20160127-WA0003.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="540" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-pEzWVfH7WnI/VqnWizm8SgI/AAAAAAAAops/X46FhCgKpEs/s1600/IMG-20160127-WA0003.jpg" /></a></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dan05P1w3B4/VqnWi8dHX3I/AAAAAAAAoqc/FqIuWjbfssM/s1600/IMG-20160123-WA0008.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="540" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dan05P1w3B4/VqnWi8dHX3I/AAAAAAAAoqc/FqIuWjbfssM/s1600/IMG-20160123-WA0008.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Given the week Meurant had endured, we thought he could do with a drink!</td></tr></tbody></table>The secret to a good 24hr race is the quality of your backup. It's not about the quality of the equipment, or the awesomeness of their camp setup. It's about having a mutual understanding of the goals and what needs to happen to achieve them. I'm lucky in that my wife is probably the best 24hr backup person I know (and I'm not just saying that because I'm married to her). And this year my backup had backup in probably the second best backup person I know (I'm not married to her though). Together, my backup crew put on a formidable show, tending to my every need. From nutrition, to hydration, from timekeeping to motivation, they had everything covered. All I really have to do is pedal, they do all the brain work. They are sympathetic when they need to be, and cruel when the moment requires it.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JqmPSZH8lFE/VqnWi56mGmI/AAAAAAAAops/nu4OMCHXiKs/s1600/IMG-20160127-WA0004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JqmPSZH8lFE/VqnWi56mGmI/AAAAAAAAops/nu4OMCHXiKs/s1600/IMG-20160127-WA0004.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My feed station (the gin belonged to the backup!)</td></tr></tbody></table>Race day dawned to clear skies and the prospect of temperatures in the high 30s, with a chance of rain overnight. We rocked up at Oak Valley an hour before the start, and set up our meagre support station. The less creature comforts there are, the less temptation there is to stop riding to enjoy them. A quick race briefing from Meurant, who'd probably had the worst week imaginable with the Simonsberg fires destroying not only indigenous fynbos and farmland, but also some of the best mountain bike trails in the Western Cape, and we lined up for the Le Mans style start. I always chuckle at the commitment and dedication some racers put into their run - it's almost like they do special training for the start. I, on the other hand prefer a far more sedate shuffle - after all, you should only really run when there is something life threatening chasing you!<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wQXyvkD-6hg/VqnY6Ws4aQI/AAAAAAAAoqo/B00LLGXAdzg/s1600/65_3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wQXyvkD-6hg/VqnY6Ws4aQI/AAAAAAAAoqo/B00LLGXAdzg/s1600/65_3.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Round and round</td></tr></tbody></table>The first couple of laps are always a challenge, not because of the effort required, but because you have to hold yourself back and not get caught up in the mayhem of the racing relay teams. Us solo riders are in this for the long haul, and any over exertion is going to hurt us later on. It's really difficult to ride slowly when your brain is telling you it wants to race. I have a strict "no info" rule for the first six hours - I don't want to know where I am, who is ahead of me, or how many laps they've done. For me, the first six hours are all about finding the rhythm of the course that is sustainable for the following 18 hours. I put down markers - how long it takes to clear the first single track, how long it takes to get to the top of the big climb, how long the descent takes, and after six hours I have a good idea of the times I should be hitting each and every lap from then on. It makes for a rather boring race report, but doing lap after lap after lap at the same consistent pace is something that I'm good at.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ppKfDbUmtcM/VqnWi9jDe3I/AAAAAAAAop0/Q78fSdfWP4s/s1600/IMG-20160124-WA0000.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="540" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ppKfDbUmtcM/VqnWi9jDe3I/AAAAAAAAop0/Q78fSdfWP4s/s1600/IMG-20160124-WA0000.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A mixture of sweat, dust and snot</td></tr></tbody></table>After six hours the contenders had been separated from the pretenders. There were several of us jostling near the top of the leaderboard. Marius, fresh off his maiden 3rd place the previous year. Lance, his collection of podium places showed his 24hr pedigree. Philip, a 68 year old who just happened to have the surname Erasmus - legendary in endurance events. And Jochen, a complete unknown and finally someone to take over my original nickname of "Who is that guy?". While my brain turns to porridge on the bike when it comes to basic decision making, I am somehow able to perform amazing mathematical calculations. I can figure out gaps to competitors, the amount of laps it will take to pass a rider ahead of me, or the number of laps I'll do at my current pace. I also able to build up a mental image of where everyone is on the course at a given time, and where I am able to make up time on them.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-np7AOLSUQc4/VqnWi9SWgnI/AAAAAAAAop0/bW51QPs8Q4Q/s1600/IMG-20160124-WA0002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-np7AOLSUQc4/VqnWi9SWgnI/AAAAAAAAop0/bW51QPs8Q4Q/s1600/IMG-20160124-WA0002.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Competitors sharing the bum cream</td></tr></tbody></table>While I'm playing make believe with imaginary bike riders in my head, the backup crew are doing an amazing job of keeping my going. Often, I'm not sure if I've actually conveyed my wishes to them, or if it's just a conversation I've have had in my head, yet whatever it is I've wished for will miraculously appear at the end of each lap. On one occasion, three-quarters through a lap, as I was feeling the first twinges of cramp, I made a mental note to remind the backup crew that I needed Rehydrate on the following lap. I then reached down to my still full bottle and took a deep gulp of what I thought was water, only to discover the cramp banishing taste of ice cold Rehydrate. Not only did my backup address my current needs, they could foretell my future needs too! (That, or I'd simply forgot that I'd been given a bottle of Rehydrate).<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xknAmhWWv1Q/VqnWi7otNyI/AAAAAAAAops/o_pZGXHnHNk/s1600/IMG-20160125-WA0005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xknAmhWWv1Q/VqnWi7otNyI/AAAAAAAAops/o_pZGXHnHNk/s1600/IMG-20160125-WA0005.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Marius trying to find his happy place</td></tr></tbody></table>Friendly faces and words of encouragement do wonders to lift the spirits, and it is always great to hear the comments, both out on the course and in the pit area. Captain Craig made an appearance to offer backup to the backup's backup, as well as support and assistance. And even though we weren't riding together, he still felt the need to hassle me about the length of time I took taking on supplies and snacks in the transition area!<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-r4-c2zPN7O4/VqnWi4CwP3I/AAAAAAAAoqc/sLNRMNY6_kk/s1600/IMG-20160123-WA0003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-r4-c2zPN7O4/VqnWi4CwP3I/AAAAAAAAoqc/sLNRMNY6_kk/s1600/IMG-20160123-WA0003.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The winner of the hardcore prize!</td></tr></tbody></table>There are three parts to a 24hr race. The two daylight sections, and the night section. Apart from just being dark (obviously), it's completely different to racing in the day. It's about consolidation and recovery. It's about laying the platform for the final 6 hours of racing. As the night wears on, the course gets quieter, and the nature of the trail changes too. Things look different. Holes look deeper. Trees look closer together. Rocks look bigger. Yet this is the time when I most enjoy 24hr racing. It's just you, your bike, the small section of trail illuminated by your light, and your thoughts (along with the odd frog and field mouse). It was during these dark hours that I came to a realisation. There are two things that make me happy during a 24hr event, and they are both related to lube. The first is a freshly lubed chain which makes the bike feel like a new bike. It's quiet, and it shifts easier, and somehow that eases a burden we all carry - the fear of mechanical failure. The same applies to the second thing - applying bum cream. Whatever aches and pains you might have seem to melt away with a fresh application of bum cream. Your bum naturally feels better, but so too do your legs, and feet, and hands.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3klBbVxBTNM/VqnY6SLgFnI/AAAAAAAAoqo/PN7xekarnZI/s1600/65_12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3klBbVxBTNM/VqnY6SLgFnI/AAAAAAAAoqo/PN7xekarnZI/s1600/65_12.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And so begins another lap</td></tr></tbody></table>Solo 24hr racing is both an ego boosting activity, as well as an utterly humbling experience. It's pretty cool to knock up an insane amount of laps and receive the admiration of many of the fellow riders out on the course, but at the same time you quickly learn which riders you can chase, and which riders it is best to just yield the track to. If you're that kind of guy that has issues with ladies riding up and down hills faster than you, then this probably isn't the sport for you.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-BUAEol22Rzc/VqnWi6EdicI/AAAAAAAAop0/5aOQuDkvS9A/s1600/IMG-20160124-WA0004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="540" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-BUAEol22Rzc/VqnWi6EdicI/AAAAAAAAop0/5aOQuDkvS9A/s1600/IMG-20160124-WA0004.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The grime was the only thing holding my legs together</td></tr></tbody></table>By sunrise, it had come down to a two horse race. Marius had popped spectacularly and lay huddled in his tent, wishing he was anywhere but at Oak Valley. Lance had endured a bad patch or two, and while still in 3rd place, was several laps off the pace. That just left Jochen "Who is that guy?" Waldherr, who was still going strong, stubbornly knocking off lap after lap. (I did some serious Facebook stalking after the event and it turns out Jochen is no stranger to 24hr racing, having come 6th at the European 24hr Champs, as well as consistently placing near the top of the leaderboard at other 24hr events.) I had a two lap lead over him, but that's not a margin I felt comfortable with given the amount of racing left. My strategy was to mark Jochen lap for lap, until there was no way he could close the gap. In the process of marking him we started chatting. He was out in South Africa on holiday, visiting his girlfriend, and had ridden Attakwas the week before. You could see he was quite hardcore - he was riding a 26 inch hardtail MTB - probably the only rider of the 600 strong field on a little bike. It's seldom that you get to ride side by side with the competition in a race and have a leisurely chat about all sorts of stuff - again, the beauty of 24hr racing.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GzPzOlQMjA8/VqnWiwY8c5I/AAAAAAAAop0/1qRxta3TBMI/s1600/IMG-20160124-WA0014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GzPzOlQMjA8/VqnWiwY8c5I/AAAAAAAAop0/1qRxta3TBMI/s1600/IMG-20160124-WA0014.jpg" width="540" /></a></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-sqFrrpoSlkU/VqnWiwUPNEI/AAAAAAAAops/UT1SKZUn8uU/s1600/IMG-20160125-WA0010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-sqFrrpoSlkU/VqnWiwUPNEI/AAAAAAAAops/UT1SKZUn8uU/s1600/IMG-20160125-WA0010.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The backup station I never got to see</td></tr></tbody></table>The clock slowly wound down, and as I got the the point where Jochen couldn't catch me, I stopped and chilled with my backup. We'd had a near perfect race, and despite there being times when I was scared of my backup (being told that I had better finish a bottle on the upcoming lap, or else!) I was extremely grateful for the outstanding job they did in managing me, even though it turned out that they lived a secret life when I was out on my laps - the wine flowed, they enjoyed juicy looking steaks with salad and even got in a few hours of sleep. Somehow, they managed to hide this all from me, removing any temptation there might be to stop "for just 5 minutes".<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zoU6SWo3pz0/VqnWi6Ls9kI/AAAAAAAAopg/p2UApNv0W3I/s1600/24HRm%2B316.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="540" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zoU6SWo3pz0/VqnWi6Ls9kI/AAAAAAAAopg/p2UApNv0W3I/s1600/24HRm%2B316.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The little endurance athlete on the podium once again</td></tr></tbody></table>As I completed my last lap, I was greeted by the little endurance athlete in our family. Although he didn't quite understand what all the excitement was about, I could tell he was rather taken by the spectacle. All the bikes and people and danger tape!<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lN0dk-QpR9Y/VqnWi4uFedI/AAAAAAAAopg/K0SEbUl8g3g/s1600/24HRm%2B319.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lN0dk-QpR9Y/VqnWi4uFedI/AAAAAAAAopg/K0SEbUl8g3g/s1600/24HRm%2B319.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lance, the little endurance athlete, myself, and Jochim "Who is that guy?"</td></tr></tbody></table>A big thank you to Dirtopia for another top notch 24hr event, and congratulations to each and every rider who took part in making this the premier 24hr event in South Africa. To my fellow solo competitors, well done on another weekend of good, tough racing. It was brutal out there! To my backup, and my backup's backup - thank you for another superb effort. You are the envy of many. To The Coach - I didn't mean all those nasty things I said about you on those long and lonely rides. Thank you for getting me into tip top shape! Lastly, to my bike, thanks for working like a dream and not giving a moment's trouble, despite my bum no longer wanting to have anything to do with you.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-nvbu_d1JBjo/VqnWi6o72DI/AAAAAAAAop0/VCTqpOUEPFY/s1600/IMG-20160124-WA0009.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="540" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-nvbu_d1JBjo/VqnWi6o72DI/AAAAAAAAop0/VCTqpOUEPFY/s1600/IMG-20160124-WA0009.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Well done bike</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-N3ExxoQ93Cs/VqnWi-bzyeI/AAAAAAAAops/84YnGkE5pUg/s1600/IMG-20160124-WA0019.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="540" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-N3ExxoQ93Cs/VqnWi-bzyeI/AAAAAAAAops/84YnGkE5pUg/s1600/IMG-20160124-WA0019.jpg" /></a></div><br />Some stats: 32 laps, 355kms, 8250m of climbing. Approx 45 bottles of fluid on the bike. 8 litres of Coke. 4 chocolate Sterri Stumpi's &amp; 3 Coffee shakes. 10 Rehydrate sachets. Copious cups of tea and coffee, and 2 sips of a Gin and Tonic. <a href="http://www.amarider.co.za/ama/php/2016/OV2016/solo.php">Results</a><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowtransparency="true" frameborder="0" height="405" scrolling="no" src="https://www.strava.com/activities/478710971/embed/11d1d3e10cf3e02fd25cf5181ac9651da5893748" width="590"></iframe></div><br /></div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/VeloTales/~4/ysjDgRpLjAo" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Velouriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06667777448042670759noreply@blogger.com4http://www.velotales.com/2016/01/oak-valley-24hr-2016.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5990819476840975001.post-30898758800495574172015-11-25T16:53:00.001+02:002015-11-25T22:16:06.366+02:00Double Century 2015<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">It was never going to be easy to beat the year we had in <a href="http://www.velotales.com/2014/11/coronation-double-century-2014.html">2014</a>, but Team HotChillee were up for the challenge. Would we be able to crack the podium for the third year running at the <a href="http://www.coronationdc.co.za/">Coronation Double Century</a>?<br><br><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--Y5GQrnEa7s/VlXBmFi_zAI/AAAAAAAAj_Y/be0tn6wNOY0/s1600/12246601_10206929639373038_6660071996619320724_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--Y5GQrnEa7s/VlXBmFi_zAI/AAAAAAAAj_Y/be0tn6wNOY0/s1600/12246601_10206929639373038_6660071996619320724_n.jpg" width="540"></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Team HotChillee Mixed</td></tr></tbody></table>Captain Craig, our fearless leader, spent many months scrutinising team lists and shuffling riders around to create the perfect balance of power, speed, endurance, and above all, team&nbsp;comradery. Our eventual line up consisted of a handful of diesel engines, several work horses, a couple of youngsters, a few wise heads, and 3 rather talented young ladies. We were a rather diverse collection of people, united with a common cause - we were going after the mixed title!<br><br><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2DFVs8W2fL8/VlXVGshUSJI/AAAAAAAAkB8/8Tck2Is6bIA/s1600/AkCHVmjHFj-9GO61cSp7W3mKLdh6PGzpX12lDJOC7QXe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2DFVs8W2fL8/VlXVGshUSJI/AAAAAAAAkB8/8Tck2Is6bIA/s1600/AkCHVmjHFj-9GO61cSp7W3mKLdh6PGzpX12lDJOC7QXe.jpg" width="540"></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hector The Protector and our amazing backup crew</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hlcNBNorIdo/VlW_7W8LlVI/AAAAAAAAj-U/JaFcxkc9m4A/s1600/2015-DC-GB-40.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hlcNBNorIdo/VlW_7W8LlVI/AAAAAAAAj-U/JaFcxkc9m4A/s1600/2015-DC-GB-40.jpg" width="540"></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One straight stripe</td></tr></tbody></table>As per usual, the first time we met up as a team was the night before for the traditional pre-race dinner and drinks at&nbsp;Tredici in Swellendam, followed by a quick team briefing. In hindsight, we couldn't have been more wrong with our race day tactics, but more about that later.<br><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-d72KnnnSshc/VlW_7WTf10I/AAAAAAAAj-Y/3bGFtZwZekk/s1600/2015-DC-GB-144.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-d72KnnnSshc/VlW_7WTf10I/AAAAAAAAj-Y/3bGFtZwZekk/s1600/2015-DC-GB-144.jpg" width="540"></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bird's eye view</td></tr></tbody></table>Joining our team for the first time was Lucky Luke, aka The Wattage Cottage. A laid back guy off the bike, but a monster on it. Our challenge was to harness that monster for the greater good. We also had a pair of twins join us - Corne and Rico, two youngsters whom I still cannot tell apart. Finally, there were the ladies, and the VIPs of our team. We'd recruited the services of Carmen Buchacher, an exceptionally quick Capetonian with a string of results that most of us can only dream of. Our final team members were two young, exceptionally talented young ladies with experience of racing overseas. Kyara Stijns of <a href="http://www.liv-cycling.com/teamsriders/team/team.liv.plantur/103/">Team Liv-Plantur</a> was our foreign import, accompanied by her friend and rising local star, Catherine Colyn.<br><br><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qlp_PfaHnck/VlW_7dGZYII/AAAAAAAAj-U/7IdCAx5yTaQ/s1600/2015-DC-GB-52.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qlp_PfaHnck/VlW_7dGZYII/AAAAAAAAj-U/7IdCAx5yTaQ/s1600/2015-DC-GB-52.jpg" width="540"></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A helping hand</td></tr></tbody></table>While the prospect of 202 kilometers in a twelve man team can be rather daunting, Team HotChillee was rather more concerned with the weather, as was every other team for the week leading up to the event. The forecast alternated from most certainly miserable, to decidedly despicable. It was going to be cold. It was going to be windy. And it was going to be wet. Welcome to summer in The Cape. But, it was going to be the same for everyone.<br><br><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0aj7XcvrQGg/VlXS8retCtI/AAAAAAAAkBg/4w9KA4uGrIU/s1600/2015-DC-GB-35.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0aj7XcvrQGg/VlXS8retCtI/AAAAAAAAkBg/4w9KA4uGrIU/s1600/2015-DC-GB-35.jpg" width="540"></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kyara</td></tr></tbody></table><br><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_x7A96ZarXE/VlXS8tDXkPI/AAAAAAAAkBg/NQgD9sCbVCo/s1600/2015-DC-GB-36.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_x7A96ZarXE/VlXS8tDXkPI/AAAAAAAAkBg/NQgD9sCbVCo/s1600/2015-DC-GB-36.jpg" width="540"></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Carmen</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>With our customary pre-race photo done, we rolled down to the start. This effectively being the first time the team had ridden together. And as we stood around waiting for our start time, the guys on Team HotChillee Mixed got a glimpse at how different it is to be a woman cyclist. As is often the case, pre-race nerves dictate that your bladder incessantly demands to be emptied. For a guy, this is no problem. You simply lean your bike somewhere, hop over a railing, and find the nearest tree/fence/lamppost. Two minutes tops! Ladies on the other hand have to locate the rows of porta loos, stand in the queue and hope that the next one available is "clean". Once in the porta loo, without going into details, they somehow get the required kit off and then on again in the confines of said "clean" porta loo without touching too many surfaces. The whole process can take in excess of 10 minutes. Much like destroying the Death Star, you pretty much only get one shot before the start gun goes.<br><br><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0WHjTZF7Mps/VlW_7U6m98I/AAAAAAAAj-U/7CEegXhUwmU/s1600/2015-DC-GB-162.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="540" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0WHjTZF7Mps/VlW_7U6m98I/AAAAAAAAj-U/7CEegXhUwmU/s1600/2015-DC-GB-162.jpg"></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another beautiful bike</td></tr></tbody></table>Urinary issues aside, Team HotChillee Mixed lined up on the start line to the cheers of a handful of supporters who were bold enough to brave the weather. And then we were off. Captain Craig took it upon himself to lead us out of town at a Goldilocks pace - not too fast, not too slow, just right. Almost immediately we realised that our male-centric race strategy was not going to work, and that instead of riding on pure testosterone, the guys in the team would have to engage their brains as well. Which is often easier said than done. Our ladies were our VICs (Very Important Cyclists), our number one priority, and we had to do everything to look after them. And to our credit we quickly got the hang of things, hiding the ladies from the wind, keeping the pace steady, and offering a helping nudge here and there up the climbs.<br><br><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lZopVpIQdng/VlW_7YfasyI/AAAAAAAAj-Y/eZAQxA8ifec/s1600/2015-DC-GB-117.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lZopVpIQdng/VlW_7YfasyI/AAAAAAAAj-Y/eZAQxA8ifec/s1600/2015-DC-GB-117.jpg" width="540"></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small; text-align: left;">▮</span><span style="font-size: small; text-align: left;">▮</span><span style="font-size: small; text-align: left;">▮</span><span style="font-size: small; text-align: left;">▮&nbsp;</span><span style="font-size: small; text-align: left;">▮</span><span style="font-size: small; text-align: left;">▮&nbsp;</span><span style="font-size: small; text-align: left;">▮</span><span style="font-size: small; text-align: left;">▮</span><span style="font-size: small; text-align: left;">▮</span><span style="font-size: small; text-align: left;">▮&nbsp;</span><span style="font-size: small; text-align: left;">▮</span><span style="font-size: small; text-align: left;">▮</span><span style="font-size: small; text-align: left;">▮</span><span style="font-size: small; text-align: left;">▮</span><span style="font-size: small; text-align: left;">▮</span></td></tr></tbody></table>And the brain work didn't end there. Our race tactics were in a constant state of flux too, and sensing that a spot on the podium was slipping away, Captain Craig made the bold call to&nbsp;▮▮▮▮&nbsp;▮ ▮▮▮&nbsp;▮▮▮▮ ▮▮▮&nbsp;▮▮▮▮, ▮▮ ▮▮▮▮ ▮▮ ▮▮▮▮ &nbsp;▮▮▮▮▮ &nbsp;▮▮▮▮▮,&nbsp;▮▮▮▮▮ &nbsp;▮▮▮&nbsp;▮▮▮&nbsp;▮&nbsp;▮▮▮▮▮▮ &nbsp;▮▮▮▮▮ &nbsp;▮▮▮ &nbsp;▮▮▮▮▮ &nbsp;▮▮ &nbsp;▮▮▮ ▮▮▮▮▮&nbsp;▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮ (text redacted so as not to give away Team secrets - <i>Captain Craig</i>). And boy was it a good plan, putting us right back into contention, while at the same time giving our ladies a chance to recover as we rolled into the first checkpoint.<br><br><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ncQxXMSh7T0/VlW_7QuAQQI/AAAAAAAAj-U/i_ZmKnBjiuc/s1600/2015-DC-GB-136.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ncQxXMSh7T0/VlW_7QuAQQI/AAAAAAAAj-U/i_ZmKnBjiuc/s1600/2015-DC-GB-136.jpg" width="540"></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Final checkpoint strategy session</td></tr></tbody></table><br>As has become the norm, our backup crew did a fine job, not only in attending to our nutritional needs, but also massaging our egos and offering gentle words of encouragement. A quick head count revealed that we'd lost one of the twins (I'm still not sure which one) due to illness. I hadn't even noticed, as the remaining twin had silently assumed his brother's responsibilities and it indeed felt like they were both still there. Our ladies were still in fine spirits, but if anyone thinks they were having a free ride, one look at the commitment and determination on their faces would reveal the effort they were putting in. Without a single complaint or utterance.<br><br><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Y2uMnRCuMQw/VlW_7ah-gVI/AAAAAAAAj-U/4X8j_gpQFkg/s1600/2015-DC-GB-135.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Y2uMnRCuMQw/VlW_7ah-gVI/AAAAAAAAj-U/4X8j_gpQFkg/s1600/2015-DC-GB-135.jpg" width="540"></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And the rain came down</td></tr></tbody></table>If you're a person with a fragile ego, then a mixed team is not the place for you. If you can't handle being dropped (twice) by ladies on a downhill, or you can't deal with being pushed uphill by a female pro, rather stick to an all men's team, or Scrabble or something. Luckily, Team HotChillee Mixed had no such problems, our single objective uniting us.<br><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cLFLi8XZpho/VlXCc3MA4YI/AAAAAAAAj_s/Idf-btgAFNg/s1600/20151125061450.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="540" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cLFLi8XZpho/VlXCc3MA4YI/AAAAAAAAj_s/Idf-btgAFNg/s1600/20151125061450.jpg"></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A total team effort</td></tr></tbody></table>Back on the road, Hector set about correcting a nightmare that has been haunting for two years when he got dropped out of the feed zone in <a href="http://www.velotales.com/2013/11/double-century-2013.html">2013</a>. To make amends, he almost single handedly towed the 10 remaining members of Team HotChillee Mixed into Robertson. From there, Captain Craig and I had a quick chat and set about implementing part two of our sneaky plan, only to hear Dr Dylan whinge for the next 10 kilometres about it being too soon. Our plan consisted of &nbsp;▮▮▮▮ ▮▮▮▮▮ ▮▮▮▮▮▮ ▮▮▮ ▮▮▮▮▮▮ ▮▮ ▮▮▮ ▮▮▮▮ ▮▮ ▮▮▮▮ ▮▮▮ ▮▮▮▮▮ ▮▮ ▮▮ ▮▮▮▮▮ ▮ ▮▮▮▮ ▮▮ ▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮ (redacted again, more Team secrets -&nbsp;<i>Captain Craig)</i>. And it worked!<br><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZfNxL01gP9o/VlW_7aMhsnI/AAAAAAAAj-U/myXDvHVKVQU/s1600/2015-DC-GB-51.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZfNxL01gP9o/VlW_7aMhsnI/AAAAAAAAj-U/myXDvHVKVQU/s1600/2015-DC-GB-51.jpg" width="540"></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The pusher getting pushed</td></tr></tbody></table>As we rolled into the second stop, so to did the weather. The heavens opened with ice cold rain, prompting us to cut our stop short to get going as soon as possible. Most of the team hunkered down, grimacing behind their sunglasses, focussing on the objective, except for our Dutch import Kyara, who seemed to flourish in the miserable conditions. The worse the weather got, the stronger she rode, culminating in her taking a few turns to push her male teammates (here's looking at you Dr David).<br><br><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-M3m8syCL0ek/VlW_7eAaSPI/AAAAAAAAj-U/Jglldf1STys/s1600/2015-DC-GB-30.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-M3m8syCL0ek/VlW_7eAaSPI/AAAAAAAAj-U/Jglldf1STys/s1600/2015-DC-GB-30.jpg" width="540"></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The birthday girl</td></tr></tbody></table>Just as we were making good progress, disaster struck - Catherine's gears gave up the ghost, leaving her stuck in the biggest gear at the back. While the modern trend of high cadence, "Chris Froome" style cycling is all the rage, no amount of cadence was going to keep Catherine in the bunch. Enter Hector the Protector and his magic pockets. Through sheer willpower, the team pushed and pulled and nursed our VIC up and down the remaining hills, finally crossing the line 5h39.<br><br><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JY2FCFBfBvg/VlW_7bjcfsI/AAAAAAAAj-U/WaOjiS3MOl8/s1600/2015-DC-GB-50.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JY2FCFBfBvg/VlW_7bjcfsI/AAAAAAAAj-U/WaOjiS3MOl8/s1600/2015-DC-GB-50.jpg" width="540"></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">All for one and one for all</td></tr></tbody></table>While it wasn't enough for the top step of the podium, Team HotChillee Mixed secured 3rd place, and in doing so, kept our hot streak of podium places going. We now had two reasons to celebrate, the second being Catherine's birthday, complete with cake and all.<br><br><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5HKK6_R3fes/VlXJWOaHODI/AAAAAAAAkAs/LpjqXti4vpo/s1600/12232730_553188321515722_4215455867288402471_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5HKK6_R3fes/VlXJWOaHODI/AAAAAAAAkAs/LpjqXti4vpo/s1600/12232730_553188321515722_4215455867288402471_o.jpg" width="540"></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Happy Birthday Catherine</td></tr></tbody></table><br><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-JweMQvvj4ds/VlXHipSsIyI/AAAAAAAAkAU/2eKxeuT5EY4/s1600/image.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-JweMQvvj4ds/VlXHipSsIyI/AAAAAAAAkAU/2eKxeuT5EY4/s1600/image.jpg" width="540"></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Post race chill out zone</td></tr></tbody></table>The dust has barely settled on another successful Coronation Double Century, but we're already looking forward to next year. In the meantime, it's back to the drawing board for another year of scheming and planning.<br><br><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_k9T6q67eec/VlW_7U5OrJI/AAAAAAAAj-U/NN_Izkj1Qp4/s1600/IMG_2744.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_k9T6q67eec/VlW_7U5OrJI/AAAAAAAAj-U/NN_Izkj1Qp4/s1600/IMG_2744.JPG" width="540"></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Third place</td></tr></tbody></table><br><br></div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/VeloTales/~4/jdbf3XuUNTw" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Velouriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06667777448042670759noreply@blogger.com2http://www.velotales.com/2015/11/double-century-2015.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5990819476840975001.post-23267436398403098232015-08-19T23:55:00.000+02:002015-08-20T00:21:05.451+02:00TransBaviaans 2015<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">For the twelfth year in a row, I made my way to the little town of Willowmore in the Eastern Cape for a bike race. And not just any bike race. A race that started my obsession with ultra endurance mountain biking. A roller coaster ride of camaraderie, suffering, elation, and exquisite beauty. A lot of things have changed in those twelve years, and a lot of things have stayed the same.<br><br><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tj1iU-fo9IU/U0NNn808O6I/AAAAAAAAVPo/WG1PG71h3uw/s1600/TRANS_BAAVIAANS_1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tj1iU-fo9IU/U0NNn808O6I/AAAAAAAAVPo/WG1PG71h3uw/s1600/TRANS_BAAVIAANS_1.JPG" width="540"></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My first Baviaans, in 2004</td></tr></tbody></table>Back in the day, we all rode 26 inch mountain bikes with bar ends and a whopping 60mm of front suspension. Tubeless tyres didn't yet exist, and the best lights money could buy lasted 3 hours, weighed a tonne, and produced a measly puddle of golden yellow light. Thankfully, they're all a thing of the past, unlike Wikus's PA system, the sosaties at check point 3, and the usual pre-race banter about the condition on the kloof.<br><br><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-aexB_5ibkqI/TlIcwXP1tXI/AAAAAAAAE-E/6W1AV7mPfMw/s1600/Trans_Baviaans_2011-_Trans_Baviaans_2011-6105642_DSC_9285.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-aexB_5ibkqI/TlIcwXP1tXI/AAAAAAAAE-E/6W1AV7mPfMw/s640/Trans_Baviaans_2011-_Trans_Baviaans_2011-6105642_DSC_9285.JPG" width="540"></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Although we were on different teams at the time, the current team members are all visible in this photo from 2011</td></tr></tbody></table>After the slightly disappointing result of <a href="http://www.velotales.com/2014/08/trans-baviaans-2014.html">2014</a>, The Quixotic Hill Engines were back to set things right. Captain Craig had spent a week training on the brutal gradients of the Pyrenees, while Halfway Robertson had indulged in several days of race simulation in the Italian Alps. My preparation was not as exotic, but included some upper body weight training (lifting a toddler is hard work!), several brutal sessions on the evil Wattbike, and the usual work and back commute. While not up to the standard of my jet-setting teammates, I thought I was in pretty decent shape. Strava even said so.<br><br><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-oB1MLw8k04s/VdTjFvFxQPI/AAAAAAAAiso/ZvpArQJ0JPE/s1600/Image1334.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="540" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-oB1MLw8k04s/VdTjFvFxQPI/AAAAAAAAiso/ZvpArQJ0JPE/s640/Image1334.jpg"></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Quixotic Hill Engines, presented by HotChillee</td></tr></tbody></table>Race day morning dawned and we were once again quietly confident of a good showing. Conditions were perfect - warm with a generous tailwind, and everything felt good. After the usual mumbled race briefing from Wikus, and a tentative rendition of our national anthem, we were sent on our way to the enthusiastic cheering of the small gaggle of remaining spectators.<br><br><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-v6yJnDlDZs8/VdTmGMNwQhI/AAAAAAAAito/J2z8YxAFKBo/s1600/11823046_1035200659823960_5134020161037464165_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="540" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-v6yJnDlDZs8/VdTmGMNwQhI/AAAAAAAAito/J2z8YxAFKBo/s1600/11823046_1035200659823960_5134020161037464165_o.jpg"></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Warm, with a welcome tail wind</td></tr></tbody></table>Our race plan is always simple - do just enough to stick with the front bunch, avoid pushing too hard, and try to get into a rhythm as soon as possible. We also like to do a quick head count, see who's who and to gauge where we stand in the pecking order. On a side note, I do the same thing with my teammates to determine the internal team pecking order. My initial assessment had Captain Craig on top, me in the middle, and Halfway in third. Perfect - it's never nice being the weakest link.<br><br><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HaRt6fbnGhs/VdTjFmWUb8I/AAAAAAAAiss/ep4KaBgduVA/s1600/Image1322.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="540" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HaRt6fbnGhs/VdTjFmWUb8I/AAAAAAAAiss/ep4KaBgduVA/s640/Image1322.jpg"></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our worldly possessions in two boxes</td></tr></tbody></table>As we dropped into the Kloof we got our first signs that things weren't going according to plan. While everything felt good, a quick team consensus revealed that we were all riding at very high heart rates. We put it down to nerves and adrenalin and continued onwards at speeds more fitting of road racing, hoping that everything would settle down as we hid in the bunch for the next two hours.<br><br>But our hopes were quickly dashed, when, in a follow up team meeting we unanimously agreed that we could not continue at this pace and expect to live till nightfall. With wise and mature heads not often associated with our team, we dropped off the bunch, preferring to ride at a more consistent pace than endure the lung and leg busting surges that were happening up front. We took stock, reassessed the plan, and rolled along at a decent pace, holding the lead group in our sight as we each took turns to set the pace on the front.<br><br><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XY_tV_Bw-Bk/VdTjFk9lGHI/AAAAAAAAiss/b9H8ND-8Tzo/s1600/Image1332.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="540" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XY_tV_Bw-Bk/VdTjFk9lGHI/AAAAAAAAiss/b9H8ND-8Tzo/s640/Image1332.jpg"></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Halfway practising his aero tuck</td></tr></tbody></table>And yet, despite our level headed approach, I still wasn't recovering. My turns on the front got fewer and I got more and more accustomed to the view from the caboose of the HotChillee Train. I was still convinced it was just a bad patch, and that I'd ride myself through it. Until the cramps started. They started off as distant tweaks - my legs trying to mumble something to me - and slowly got worse and worse. By now Captain Craig and Halfway were doing all the work on the front, and occasionally I'd have to request a drop in pace, particularly over small rises as I was struggling to hang onto the wheel in front of me.<br><br><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fjtWgY7wnYQ/VdT36sUCSbI/AAAAAAAAiuo/3TggNPPRA6c/s1600/IMG-20150818-WA0005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="540" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fjtWgY7wnYQ/VdT36sUCSbI/AAAAAAAAiuo/3TggNPPRA6c/s1600/IMG-20150818-WA0005.jpg"></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">How many grown men does it take to figure out how to attach a timing chip to a helmet?</td></tr></tbody></table>The first compulsory stop could not have come at a better time. I hoped the break would be enough to restore my karma as we went through the usual check point rituals, from eating and drinking, restocking the pockets to lubing the chain. But I knew something wasn't right. I was so desperate to rediscover my form that I even asked Halfway for a hug. And while quietly sobbing into his shoulder offered momentary relief from the slowly escalating catastrophe, it did nothing to revitalise my body.<br><br><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PWRurY0MrqQ/VdTguxalCRI/AAAAAAAAips/FOYCtn4lAwc/s1600/IMG_20150815_085957.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PWRurY0MrqQ/VdTguxalCRI/AAAAAAAAips/FOYCtn4lAwc/s640/IMG_20150815_085957.jpg" width="540"></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Is this aero?</td></tr></tbody></table>I still clung to the fading hope that I'd find some legs, but as we started climbing, so too did my heart rate. And with the increased heart rate came the cramps. Each surge a little more severe than the last. Any glimmer of a recovery quickly vanished as I settled into a physical and mental state that I hoped would see me to the end. The phrase "pain cave" gets thrown about a lot these days, describing anything from the burn felt while doing 2 minute intervals to the discomfort encountered when riding into the howling South Easter. I was not in the pain cave. I had gone into the pain cave and laughed at its patheticness. In comparison to the pit of despair that I found myself falling into, the pain cave is a mod con packed, luxury bachelor pad with fluffy duvets, deep pile carpets and an endless supply of beer. I was entering Dante's Inferno.<br><br><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JVttkxNndN8/VdTjFsxKbRI/AAAAAAAAiso/NPgOBNj5EwY/s1600/Image1328.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JVttkxNndN8/VdTjFsxKbRI/AAAAAAAAiso/NPgOBNj5EwY/s640/Image1328.jpg" width="540"></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">All smiles before the start</td></tr></tbody></table>Occasionally, both Halfway and Captain Craig would descend towards my pit of misery, only to recover and escape its deathly clutches. By the time we rolled into the next check point I was starting to contemplate throwing in the towel. Despite covering the first 124km in 4h30, we had the hillier second half of the race ahead of us, and I wasn't sure I had the legs to go uphill.<br><br><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wQy-MFIfGVQ/VdTjFsZdNJI/AAAAAAAAiss/rAn4MGzatYI/s1600/Image1335.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="540" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wQy-MFIfGVQ/VdTjFsZdNJI/AAAAAAAAiss/rAn4MGzatYI/s640/Image1335.jpg"></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My fancy new Lauf fork</td></tr></tbody></table>Two thoughts go through your mind when you have a bad day like this. The first is about survival. Will I be able to make it to the end, or am I going to end up either in the back of an ambulance, or huddled under a bush wishing it would all end? The second is about letting the team down. Despite the reassurances and sympathy from my teammates, it's never cool to be the "if only" guy. It always feels bad explaining to others that we would have had a fantastic race, if only I hadn't had such a bad day.<br><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-IyjDvjkcu_M/VdTmGK_SeoI/AAAAAAAAito/URrAd6Keh1Y/s1600/11885078_585338664940413_3452231807623670610_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-IyjDvjkcu_M/VdTmGK_SeoI/AAAAAAAAito/URrAd6Keh1Y/s640/11885078_585338664940413_3452231807623670610_n.jpg" width="540"></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fifeteen kilometres in and already we were showing signs of weakness</td></tr></tbody></table><br>On a hill I have ridden 11 times in a row, I found myself having to stop, get off my bike, fight the now ever present cramps, and push my bike. And this was a hill that doesn't even feature on the profile. This didn't bode well for the big climb of the day that lay ahead, aptly named The Mother of All Climbs. The MAC has claimed my scalp several times over the years, and in recent years is the one climb in South Africa that is most guaranteed to make me vomit. And 2015 was no different.<br><br><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZZsNTTnw1YM/VdTg9Yz-MTI/AAAAAAAAiqM/HpDVS1xC4DI/s1600/11896226_885822464830405_9152947707195584779_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZZsNTTnw1YM/VdTg9Yz-MTI/AAAAAAAAiqM/HpDVS1xC4DI/s640/11896226_885822464830405_9152947707195584779_n.jpg" width="540"></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The HotChillee Express</td></tr></tbody></table>Sometimes, when suffering, it's nice to have the company of your teammates around you, like a reassuring favourite blanket when you're young. With them nearby, despite how atrocious things are, you're going to be okay. At other times, it's better to suffer alone, in your own little world, at your own crawling pace. Whether intentional or not, Captain Craig and Halfway left me to my own devices up The MAC, as I slowly limped up the climb, pedal stroke after pedal stroke, stopping for the occasional stomach emptying, or a particularly bad wave of cramps. I finally reached the top of The MAC, and with some very generous pushing from both my teammates (at the same time!) we eventually rolled into the next check point. I think I still have their hand prints on my lower back!<br><br><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_9V0mqthDF8/VdTg9ZmkUYI/AAAAAAAAiqE/hF3l4PMMIKI/s1600/11923230_1039272762750083_4423750534098239430_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_9V0mqthDF8/VdTg9ZmkUYI/AAAAAAAAiqE/hF3l4PMMIKI/s640/11923230_1039272762750083_4423750534098239430_n.jpg" width="540"></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">As tough as it was, it still beats work</td></tr></tbody></table>While my guardian angels ran around after me, refilling my bottles, unpacking my supplies and lubing my chain, I gulped down two cups of the now legendary Check Point 4 soup. This is the same soup that in the past has settled my stomach, given me super human powers, and solved world hunger. I'm quite sure the recipe was handed down from the cycling gods themselves. All I needed from the soup this year was a warm and fuzzy feeling that everything was going to be alright. A sign that somehow, between my supportive teammates' efforts and my flappy wobbly legs, we were going to make it to the finish in Jeffreys Bay.<br>￼<br><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-21XTca5f_Pc/VdTjFjmOo1I/AAAAAAAAiso/GSVkK0ex920/s1600/11891252_1039272412750118_731017962799122728_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="540" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-21XTca5f_Pc/VdTjFjmOo1I/AAAAAAAAiso/GSVkK0ex920/s640/11891252_1039272412750118_731017962799122728_n.jpg"></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Must. Have. More. Coke.</td></tr></tbody></table>As we left the comfort of the check point and the life giving soup, Captain Craig took on a fatherly role in our team dynamic, while Halfway sat on the front to set the pace. Captain Craig would shepherd me with gentle nudges and expert prods back onto Halfway's wheel, keeping me sheltered and protected from the wind, and help ease me over the climbs. On the odd occasion that I'd venture out from behind Halfway's bum for a change of scenery, Captain Craig would sternly reprimand me and tell me to rejoin the safety of our formation. Our technique worked so well that we actually caught and passed a few teams which helped lift my morale. For several hours we'd been the ones being passed, and no matter what sort of day you're having, it's never a pleasant feeling.<br><br><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-S9RrXBfuqLY/VdTmGCSNqMI/AAAAAAAAito/X8Tsyb2VQfk/s1600/11898599_1032089466810524_5568980393247787730_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-S9RrXBfuqLY/VdTmGCSNqMI/AAAAAAAAito/X8Tsyb2VQfk/s640/11898599_1032089466810524_5568980393247787730_n.jpg" width="540"></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Trouble, as Captain Craig drives the pace on the front and I go out the back</td></tr></tbody></table>The soup had done wonders for my soul and my spirit, but my legs were still a mayhem of demon cramps. Pedalling caused cramps. Not pedalling caused cramps. Thinking about pedalling caused cramps. The only thing I could do to control the cramps was move them around. Give all the various muscles in my legs a turn to contort and twist themselves into tennis ball-sized blobs of pain. Unlike previous years, the slower pace gave us opportunity to chat. Amongst other things we discussed the beers we'd have at the finish, what sport I should take up instead of mountain biking (stand up paddle boarding, or darts), and the state of the chafe of Halfway's nether regions. I also had a very public conversation with my legs, and I have to say - <a href="http://www.bicycling.com/video/origin-shut-legs">Jens Voigt</a> is wrong - legs don't respond to reason, commands or threats.<br><br><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1B49U6Yo0U0/VdTmGJJUlnI/AAAAAAAAito/QiQXjizNkO0/s1600/11225226_1029159287094764_8069896571984297714_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1B49U6Yo0U0/VdTmGJJUlnI/AAAAAAAAito/QiQXjizNkO0/s640/11225226_1029159287094764_8069896571984297714_o.jpg" width="540"></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We'd joked about this beforehand, and I even accepted the title. I didn't think it would be this bad!</td></tr></tbody></table>We rolled into the second last check point in daylight, which, despite the day we were having, was something that many teams can only dream of. We were welcomed by our able backup - Jason the Barefoot Runner. At this point we were no longer interested in positions or times, and for the first time in many years we got to enjoy the offerings of the check points without Captain Craig rushing us along. Halfway had been suffering from a killer headache for several hours, and foolishly asked the medics for some tablets. After a full medical examination, DNA testing, blood work and a CAT scan he was given two tablets and sent on his way. With that in mind, there was no chance I was going anywhere near the medics for any medicinal relief!<br><br><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-at5Y6vgCPBw/VdT36rJl9TI/AAAAAAAAiuo/x7G5HLG5Udg/s1600/IMG-20150818-WA0004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="540" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-at5Y6vgCPBw/VdT36rJl9TI/AAAAAAAAiuo/x7G5HLG5Udg/s1600/IMG-20150818-WA0004.jpg"></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Four broken spokes for Halfway</td></tr></tbody></table>Back on the road, while I was fighting the demons in my legs, my teammates were having their own private battles - mostly mechanical. Captain Craig had punctured, and had <a href="http://www.velotales.com/2015/04/the-36one-2015.html">another light malfunction</a>, with Halfway slowly but surely breaking one spoke after the other in his rear wheel. My teammates would send me on ahead as they attended to their mechanical issues, and each time I secretly hoped that my legs would come back and that they wouldn't be able to catch me. And each time that wouldn't happen and they'd quickly reel me in.<br><blockquote class="twitter-tweet tw-align-center" lang="en"><div dir="ltr" lang="en">Lost at <a href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/Transbaviaans2015?src=hash">#Transbaviaans2015</a>: one set of legs, a sense of sense of humor, the desire to live. Last seen: 50 kms from the start.</div>— Dane Walsh (@velotales) <a href="https://twitter.com/velotales/status/632637137129766912">August 15, 2015</a></blockquote><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script> We inched our way up The NeverEnder, and for the first time in ages it really was never ending. Like Chinese water torture it wore us down, but it didn't matter. We were in no rush. Up until now, Halfway had already broken 3 spokes in his rear wheel (no fat jokes please - he is a sensitive soul), and so between nursing me and his bike we eventually conquered The NeverEnder, rolling into the final check point.￼<br><blockquote class="twitter-tweet tw-align-center" lang="en"><div dir="ltr" lang="en">Post <a href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/Transbaviaans2015?src=hash">#Transbaviaans2015</a> sale: one owner, low millage, like new. Most recently ridden in a granny-like manner. <a href="http://t.co/16Rr988Nii">pic.twitter.com/16Rr988Nii</a></div>— Dane Walsh (@velotales) <a href="https://twitter.com/velotales/status/632635987353583616">August 15, 2015</a></blockquote><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script> Halfway attended to his failing wheel while Captain Craig and I enjoyed the jaffles on offer and got dressed a little warmer for the final push to the finish. And talking of pushing, I am proud to say that I made the final leg without a single push. My teammates had either given up on me, or they too were finally feeling the strain of nursing my sorry body for 180kms. As the lights of Jeffreys Bay got brighter, so too did our mood. We'd survived a character testing ordeal, and although I'm sure to be carrying the mental baggage of this event for years to come, we'd emerged stronger for it. When a bad day is finishing 43rd, in 10h31, almost nine hours ahead of the last team, there really isn't too much to complain about.<br><br><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-a3T7ZUSV5SY/VdT36vyULgI/AAAAAAAAiuo/XOIJgug6quQ/s1600/IMG-20150818-WA0003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-a3T7ZUSV5SY/VdT36vyULgI/AAAAAAAAiuo/XOIJgug6quQ/s1600/IMG-20150818-WA0003.jpg" width="540"></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Halfway completed his fifth TransBaviaans.</td></tr></tbody></table></div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/VeloTales/~4/wTlS6mrZsH8" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Velouriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06667777448042670759noreply@blogger.com7http://www.velotales.com/2015/08/transbaviaans-2015.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5990819476840975001.post-37454935245384861062015-04-23T16:52:00.000+02:002015-04-23T17:09:54.318+02:00The 36One 2015<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-oWRe1uXkvHA/VTj95RSrXWI/AAAAAAAAgx0/fuxLWTht6Gk/s1600/IMG_20150419_091212.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-oWRe1uXkvHA/VTj95RSrXWI/AAAAAAAAgx0/fuxLWTht6Gk/s1600/IMG_20150419_091212.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The 36One</td></tr></tbody></table><p>As we crossed the finish line of The 36One a year ago, Captain Craig and I vowed to never ever ever ever do this event again, and yet, when entries opened for this year's event, we were there, the pain and suffering a distant memory.<br /><br />Everything about The 36One is just crazy. The person who came up with the idea had to be crazy. The people who turned the idea into an event must be crazy. And the people paying good money to ride such an event are definitely crazy. It doesn't stop there. As if 361 kilometres isn't crazy enough, the ride only starts at sunset. Why in the world would any one willingly want to do such an event, and yet here we were. Again.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-hcFDYFZdVv0/VTPJtbuVTbI/AAAAAAAAgsQ/XM_sN_NEqoQ/s1600/IMG_20150417_111619.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-hcFDYFZdVv0/VTPJtbuVTbI/AAAAAAAAgsQ/XM_sN_NEqoQ/s1600/IMG_20150417_111619.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A welcome stop at the pie shop</td></tr></tbody></table>Team HotChillee's build up didn't really go according to plan. Captain Craig got sick with a month to go, followed shortly by me. Man flu is quite a debilitating disease at the best of times - imagine how grumpy we were as we moped about, sick and unable to ride our bikes. As the months of training and preparation slowly seeped from our bodies, desperation started to set in. It's okay to be weak and slow, it's just not okay to be weaker and slower than your partner. Despite several frantic emails to The Coach, and some last minute training program changes, the realisation dawned on me that I was probably going to die at The 36One when I popped spectacularly on a 3 hour training ride. Here is the email exchange I had with The Coach:<br /></p><blockquote class="tr_bq"><blockquote class="tr_bq">My tempo ride seemed to start out ok (Strava said I rode some good solid segments), but my legs felt tender, and after 2 hours I popped. I had to stop for a coke and chocolate just to get home. And then, while lying on the couch, watching TV, I had the worst cramps I have had in years. Every muscle in both legs ganged up on me.</blockquote><blockquote class="tr_bq">We've changed our objectives from a podium to just not dying. I suspect I might have to get my money's worth and spend a bit more time than usual at the water points ;)</blockquote></blockquote>Our bad luck bogey didn't end with the man flu. With an hour to go to race time, Captain Craig discovered that his lights weren't working. But never fear - in a rare moment of sheer brilliance, he'd borrowed a backup set. Which didn't work either. And in all the light fitting and refitting pandemonium, we'd missed the deadline to hand in our boxes of supplies, spares and extra kit. So there we were with one working light, and potentially no supplies for 361 kilometres. And just like that, Captain Craig had a new name - Captain Chaos - a name his wife also fully endorses. Thankfully, after a little begging and pleading, the amazing people at Dryland came up with a plan to get our boxes to where they needed to be, although we never did solve the light issue.<br /><blockquote class="twitter-tweet tw-align-center" lang="en">Due to <a href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/loadshedding?src=hash">#loadshedding</a> there will be no moon light provided. Please ensure you have sufficient light. <a href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/theultimaterace?src=hash">#theultimaterace</a><br />— 36ONE MTB Challenge (@The36ONE) <a href="https://twitter.com/The36ONE/status/589087629888593920">April 17, 2015</a></blockquote><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script> It's difficult to describe the attraction of The 36One. On paper there is nothing appealing about it. It's 361 kilometres of dirt road riding, in the dark, on your own. And while it might be the Karoo, it's certainly not flat with over 5000 metres of climbing. The weather can be unpredictable and the terrain quite brutal on body and bike. And yet, over 500 undeterred cyclists entered this crazy crazy event with something to prove. For some, it's the thrill of the race, the planning and preparation, the control of mind over body. For others it's the challenge, the next big thing. Pushing the limits to near breaking point just to see what happens. Having the courage to stand on the start line and contemplate the unknown that awaits them.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bN_wazfFvjo/VTPKUiz9fJI/AAAAAAAAgtE/2AbVvd8s2Vo/s1600/IMG_20150417_153817.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bN_wazfFvjo/VTPKUiz9fJI/AAAAAAAAgtE/2AbVvd8s2Vo/s1600/IMG_20150417_153817.jpg" height="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A lot of kit for just one ride</td></tr></tbody></table>With the sun setting behind the Swartberg mountains, months and months of preparation culminated as we were sent on our way - the great unknown ahead of us. Being the roadies that we are, Captain Chaos and I immediately hooked a tandem and set out way too fast. While I tried to convince myself that this was a good idea, my brain was frantically calculating where exactly we'd be when I'd pop after 2 hours, and whether there would be any coke nearby. I concluded that we'd probably be miles from civilization, and that I'd probably end up dying out there, with just Captain Chaos for company. Luckily, the road started to go up, and the tandem went backwards, and all of a sudden we were in control of our own destiny. Until the solo race snakes caught us.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Un57KdzTOEo/VTPKly-56ZI/AAAAAAAAgtc/tjPhav0mphY/s1600/IMG_20150417_153837.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Un57KdzTOEo/VTPKly-56ZI/AAAAAAAAgtc/tjPhav0mphY/s1600/IMG_20150417_153837.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What do we put in these?</td></tr></tbody></table>Captain Chaos and I could have entered as solo race snakes, but there is something cool about being forced to ride with someone else, particularly in a race like this. Being able to share a moment, having a shoulder to cry on in the early hours of the morning, an extra brain to help with decision making conundrums like whether to have another date ball or switch to the koeksisters, and just a person with which to get through the occasional dark patch (in our case, Captain Chaos's extremely long literal dark patch from sunset to sunrise).<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-oRV3UHUuNNY/VTPKzWBxe5I/AAAAAAAAgto/mo7BJ7uLCrE/s1600/IMG_20150417_153847.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-oRV3UHUuNNY/VTPKzWBxe5I/AAAAAAAAgto/mo7BJ7uLCrE/s1600/IMG_20150417_153847.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My trusty stead</td></tr></tbody></table>On the topic of darkness, Captain Chaos was like the shadow behind me that I couldn't see. This presence I knew was there but couldn't always locate. Occasionally I'd lose him completely, only to hear his desperate cries for help as he careened off the road towards the great unknown. Not only did he ride the entire night time route without a light, he also didn't complain once. Together, we managed to somehow navigate the ups and downs on one light without incident, although I now know what it feels like to be a seeing eye dog. So cemented was our race formation that even once the sun had risen, we rarely changed our line up - me on the front with Captain Chaos close behind, the occasional buzz of his freebody the only indicator I had that he was still there.<br /><blockquote class="twitter-tweet tw-align-center" lang="en">Big up to <a href="https://twitter.com/captaincraigSA">@captaincraigSA</a> - only guy I know who can ride in near total darkness, faster than than most, without complaining once <a href="https://twitter.com/The36ONE">@The36ONE</a><br />— Dane Walsh (@velotales) <a href="https://twitter.com/velotales/status/589419221332930560">April 18, 2015</a></blockquote><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script> <br />As the race snakes dished out the pain to each other, a couple of the teams and a few of the more sensible solo riders sat up and let them go. We soon found ourselves in the esteemed company of Jeannie and Martin Dreyer, as well as some of the top endurance riders in South Africa. I've always been a fan of the tortoise approach to long distance riding, and having that reinforced by the riders around us gave me hope that I might make the first checkpoint before the wheels fell off. Given the list of achievements the Dreyers share between them, it was rather odd that they took a wrong turn and vanished from our sight for the next 10 hours. We weren't sure what was worse - trying to chase them down, or being chased down by them. It did however give us a renewed urgency at the water and check points. I usually ignore Captain Chaos's harassment and take my time, making sure I'm thoroughly refuelled and ready to go. This year our stops were up there with Formula One race cars!<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-enA5zd57TPY/VTPK-GicIFI/AAAAAAAAgt0/jf18k1VFVVE/s1600/IMG_20150417_170459.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-enA5zd57TPY/VTPK-GicIFI/AAAAAAAAgt0/jf18k1VFVVE/s1600/IMG_20150417_170459.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Frantic light replacement</td></tr></tbody></table>The greatest pity about this race is that we ride in some of the most scenic surroundings in the complete darkness. If it isn't in the small puddle of light in front of you, it doesn't exist. Sometimes you can smell it, and sometimes you can hear it, but that is the only hint you have that a world exists outside of the light. Occasionally we'd be treated to some visitors - we saw a few rabbits, a mouse or two, and Captain Chaos encountered a snake which he expertly bunny hopped. And sometimes we'd see things that weren't really there at all - stars and cell phone masts looked like riders way above us at the top of figmental climbs, road signs varied from oncoming traffic to giant wild animals, and I greeted more than one fence post that I thought looked like a spectator or marshal.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UqIvsMiZJfc/VTj7s73tRkI/AAAAAAAAgxI/pMzKj8wgGBM/s1600/11149627_661542187323064_2257545662231266571_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UqIvsMiZJfc/VTj7s73tRkI/AAAAAAAAgxI/pMzKj8wgGBM/s1600/11149627_661542187323064_2257545662231266571_o.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spot the roadies wheelsucking the tandem</td></tr></tbody></table>This race can never be won in the first 200 kilometres, but it certainly can be lost. While conservative riding, a proven nutritional plan, and some mental fortitude will get you quite far, sometimes you need a little luck too. As we left the first check point, Captain Craig broke a chain. Trying to fix a chain at the best of times is a rather fiddly hit and miss operation, and with cold fingers and minimal light is as tedious as watching the South African cricket team mount a run chase. Fortunately, we had our mechanical within sight of the check point, and were able to fix the chain in the blink of an eye, thanks to the light of a nearby Toyota Hilux's headlights. Thanksfully, that was the sum total of our bad luck.<br /><blockquote class="twitter-tweet tw-align-center" lang="en">I think the <a href="https://twitter.com/The36ONE">@The36ONE</a> made us all do some rather silly post race things. I almost put bum cream on my toothbrush! <a href="https://t.co/rb5DPSps0x">https://t.co/rb5DPSps0x</a><br />— Dane Walsh (@velotales) <a href="https://twitter.com/velotales/status/589809641795801090">April 19, 2015</a></blockquote><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script> You'd think that in 361 kilometres Captain Chaos and I would be able to solve the world's problems, but the reality is that we barely talk to each other. A cursory "How you doing?", a curt "Can we back it off?" or a quick "What do you need at the water point?" typically sum up our verbal interactions. Occasionally I'd get advice on how to ride through the muddy patches, or I'd request a wee stop. We're so good at non-verbal communication that at one point we said nothing to each other for 20 kilometres, which completely freaked out the rider that was riding with us. So much so that we're convinced he dropped off because he thought we were having a marriage row. But we understand each other all of the time - one look and we can tell how the other is feeling, how strong he is riding, or whether he is having a bad patch, and we can adjust accordingly. That's not to say I don't have conversations, I do, but mostly in my head. With myself. About all sorts of things that I can never remember afterwards. Cycling induced amnesia.<br /><blockquote class="twitter-tweet tw-align-center" data-conversation="none" lang="en"><a href="https://twitter.com/captaincraigSA">@captaincraigSA</a> <a href="https://twitter.com/velotales">@velotales</a> stooping to a Steers burger spread. Not as embarrassing as falling asleep in the KFC drive thru queue last night.<br />— Tim Brink (@timbrink) <a href="https://twitter.com/timbrink/status/589719441019121664">April 19, 2015</a></blockquote><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script> The main physical challenge of The 36One is a little hill called Rooiberg. A 7 kilometre climb with 500 metres ascent. Nothing too hectic. Except it comes after 250 kilometres. When it comes to any team race, you don't have to be the fastest, you just have to be faster than your partner, and this year it was Captain Chaos's turn to suffer up the climb. And even then, when you think you're suffering, there is always someone worse off. As we inched our way up the climb we caught a solo rider standing next to his bicycle, motionless. We asked if he was okay, and he replied with a rejected "I just need some time to gather myself". We've all be there, and given the state he was in, I suspect he spent quite a while gathering himself on the slopes of Rooiberg.<br /><blockquote class="twitter-tweet tw-align-center" lang="en">Big thank you to <a href="https://twitter.com/HotChillee">@HotChillee</a> for sponsoring our pain and suffering tks <a href="https://twitter.com/velotales">@velotales</a> for making it kind of fun <a href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/nolimits?src=hash">#nolimits</a> <a href="http://t.co/dU9eyotaZF">pic.twitter.com/dU9eyotaZF</a><br />— Craig Edwards (@captaincraigSA) <a href="https://twitter.com/captaincraigSA/status/589707386744627200">April 19, 2015</a></blockquote><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script> Before we knew it, we had crested the climb and were flying down the other side in our familiar formation, sharing the light whilst trying to carry some speed. A long and cold descent later we hit the valley floor with the lights of Calitzdorp glimmering in the distance. Sunrise was threatening to make an appearance in the lead looking sky and with it the promise of some warmth. As we rolled into the checkpoint in the pre-dawn light we were greeted with an oasis of snacks and supplies. The only thing worse than a porridge brain is an indecisive porridge brain. Captain Chaos and I breathlessly sampled the goodies on hand before being jolted back to reality by the appearance of the Dreyers. We had 80 kilometres of looking over our shoulders ahead of us, and we needed all the head start we could get.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8tKqk8Q6yxc/VTPLPn_Sy0I/AAAAAAAAguk/mSsWXErZ9Ro/s1600/IMG_20150418_152719.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8tKqk8Q6yxc/VTPLPn_Sy0I/AAAAAAAAguk/mSsWXErZ9Ro/s1600/IMG_20150418_152719.jpg" height="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The numbers</td></tr></tbody></table>The final stage of The 36One can only be described as barbaric. A mere 51 kilometres as the crow flies to the finish, but a sadistic and brutal 80 kilometres with over a thousand metres of climbing awaited us. This was where our race began. Where the previous 12 hours effort would either make or break us. We knew what lay in store for us, and we knew just how deep we'd need to dig. With those thoughts filling our minds there was no need to talk. No wonder our companion felt a little uneasy.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-kteTpH2Ju1c/VTj72NXGphI/AAAAAAAAgxc/aoA4-5JVfYs/s1600/10981855_775522222561105_7111715150426433506_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-kteTpH2Ju1c/VTj72NXGphI/AAAAAAAAgxc/aoA4-5JVfYs/s1600/10981855_775522222561105_7111715150426433506_n.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Still mates after another crazy adventure</td></tr></tbody></table>Few things in cycling are as depressing and soul destroying as slogging it out on a climb, going to a very dark place for a very long time, and as you crest the climb to feelings of elation and accomplishment with a beautiful downhill in front of you, only to see the road climbing out of the valley up another impossibly steep hill. How more cyclists at The 36One haven't suffered mental breakdowns is a testament to the toughness and single bloody mindedness of those that enter this unique event.<br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Z2UAef83Olk/VTj7tADsssI/AAAAAAAAgxU/7m3OVT7WR7M/s1600/11155170_662077103936239_1805279134189089141_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Z2UAef83Olk/VTj7tADsssI/AAAAAAAAgxU/7m3OVT7WR7M/s1600/11155170_662077103936239_1805279134189089141_o.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Top step of the podium for Team HotChillee</td></tr></tbody></table>As we crested the last of the mind destroying hills we still could not see the Dreyers, and we began to believe that we might just be able to hold them off. My white line fever once again kicked in from 35 kilometres out, but Captain Chaos had the wisdom this year to speak up and curb my enthusiasm before he imploded like a poorly made soufflé. We ticked off the final kilometres in a metronomic fashion, crossing the line in 16:03, to be told we'd finished in second place. Our hearts sank as our minds tried to make sense of the news we were hearing. How could that be? Where did they pass us? Who was this team we'd missed entirely? And then the good news - there was no other team. Captain Chaos and I had won the team category, knocking 45 minutes off our previous time, and climbing up on a step on the podium.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><iframe allowtransparency="true" frameborder="0" height="405" scrolling="no" src="https://www.strava.com/activities/288645096/embed/5be1eabfc7cbd8d5dbd9b0551fe54f0cff5f828c" style="text-align: left;" width="590"></iframe></div><br />We might have won our category, but as usual, the real champions in an event like this are not those at the pointy end of the race, instead the real champions are those for which The 36One isn't just a bike race, but rather a life changing obsession. To those men and women, you have my utmost admiration and respect. You are the true heroes. The real champions. And I know many will be back next year. Captain Chaos and I have already vowed to never ever ever do this event again, but as I write this race report I'm already thinking about next year, and the allurement that this crazy crazy race has over each and every one of us.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-lNH1lhMkI2g/VTj7tA_S6NI/AAAAAAAAgxM/MqfugpZBDjk/s1600/1912061_661552617322021_8180607167779715766_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-lNH1lhMkI2g/VTj7tA_S6NI/AAAAAAAAgxM/MqfugpZBDjk/s1600/1912061_661552617322021_8180607167779715766_o.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another one for the collection</td></tr></tbody></table><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/VeloTales/~4/7axadph1A-s" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Velouriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06667777448042670759noreply@blogger.com1http://www.velotales.com/2015/04/the-36one-2015.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5990819476840975001.post-13218750159989073442014-11-28T16:01:00.000+02:002014-12-02T10:34:22.464+02:00Coronation Double Century 2014<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Once a year, the forth oldest town in South Africa is transformed from a destination better known for its fine dining and agricultural shows, to the capital of endurance road cycling. The <a href="http://coronationdc.co.za/">Coronation Double Century</a> attracts bike riders from all over the country, eager to measure themselves against the 202 kilometres in and around the picturesque town of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Swellendam">Swellendam</a>. Now in its 22 year, the DC, as it is affectionately known, continues to innovate and adapt, and this is what makes it part of our unique cycling culture. Why else would 200 twelve man (and woman) teams subject themselves to the months of relentless training, the emotional anguish and the physical suffering?<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gArMZwTbZ8U/VHcPGxSGreI/AAAAAAAAd-k/nkfAZ8YKhr8/s1600/1416597398345.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gArMZwTbZ8U/VHcPGxSGreI/AAAAAAAAd-k/nkfAZ8YKhr8/s1600/1416597398345.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Team HotChillee</td></tr></tbody></table>Under the careful craftsmanship of <a href="https://twitter.com/captaincraigSA">Captain Craig</a>, <a href="http://www.hotchillee.com/">HotChillee</a> had assembled two very powerful teams, both with aspirations of podium level greatness. After many meticulous months spent planning the intricate composition of the teams, like an artisan creating a masterpiece, Captain Craig presented two finely balanced teams, with equal parts of professionalism and&nbsp;comicality, that both honoured the spirit of the Coronation Double Century, and hopefully armed us with an opportunity to climb a little higher up the podium.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-S7XfCS4600o/VHcPG60w7QI/AAAAAAAAd-k/SORGv1zDCsQ/s1600/10440682_10152515353938517_5266711274739437205_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-S7XfCS4600o/VHcPG60w7QI/AAAAAAAAd-k/SORGv1zDCsQ/s1600/10440682_10152515353938517_5266711274739437205_n.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The official unofficial team photo</td></tr></tbody></table><a href="http://www.teamsky.com/">Team Sky</a>'s <a href="http://www.cyclingweekly.co.uk/news/latest-news/adam-blythe-wins-revolutions-longest-lap-race-video-141324">track standing champ</a> and super speedster, <a href="http://www.benswift.cc/">Ben Swift</a>, had returned to give us that experienced edge, as well as our resident Iron Man, <a href="http://www.danhalksworth.com/">Dan Halksworth</a>. And this year Dan had some company - no longer the sole victim of countless triathlete jibes - in the form of <a href="http://www.jamescunnama.net/">James Cunnama</a>. On the youthful side of the spectrum we had the 19 year old duo of <a href="https://twitter.com/nic_dlamini">Nicholas Dlamini</a> and Shameeg Sallie, the former still recovering from the jubilation of signing with <a href="http://www.teammtnqhubeka.com/">MTN-Qhubeka</a>'s feeder team, and the latter coming off a win at the recent One Tonner. Naas ticked the steam train check box, and the doctor threesome of David, Dylan and Doc provided us with some solid workhorses. Finally, we had mountain biking pro and Rocky Mountain rider <a href="https://twitter.com/jarrydhaley">Jarryd Haley</a> to keep a suspicious eye on us roadies.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MJJwdD0yWGs/VHxXcI9VcvI/AAAAAAAAeEU/9qemDAPmFl8/s1600/HotChilleeDC025.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MJJwdD0yWGs/VHxXcI9VcvI/AAAAAAAAeEU/9qemDAPmFl8/s1600/HotChilleeDC025.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Detailed race tactics strategy meeting</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>As is the norm, Team HotChillee only meet up the night before the event. No silly training rides through the long dark winter. No team strategy meetings and motivational outings. Instead, we congregate at <a href="http://tredici.co.za/">Tredici</a>, home to the finest chocolate brownies in the country, for a pre race pasta meal and a few glasses of red wine, followed by chocolate brownies - obviously. This provides the opportunity to catch up on the happenings of the preceding year, and more notably, confirm the fitness levels of our team mates that we'd spent months scrutinising on <a href="http://www.strava.com/">Strava</a>, analysing each and every ride, knowing that your team mates were doing the exact same thing to you.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-oqW6Pjs3QQA/VHcPG6xfaeI/AAAAAAAAd-k/bFNztOnwW4g/s1600/IMG-20141124-WA0026.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-oqW6Pjs3QQA/VHcPG6xfaeI/AAAAAAAAd-k/bFNztOnwW4g/s1600/IMG-20141124-WA0026.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our highly proficient backup crew</td></tr></tbody></table>With the wine flowing and the chocolate brownies tasting like the tiny slices of heaven, Ben gave us our first and only pre race talk. After successfully adopting several of Team Sky's <b>Marginal Gains</b> ideas on our way to 3rd place the previous year, we were eager to see what other tricks he had in store for us. With tips from the covert <b>Incremental Gains</b> program, and some concepts from the secretive <b>Monumental Gains</b> system, we discussed things like&nbsp;riding formation, momentum conservation, code words and secret handshakes, water point optimisation, race strategy, and how to look like a pro. The seasoned professionals on our team seemed to be soaking this up, while the amateurs started to feel increasingly uncomfortable. Like inmates on death row we were filled with regret. Regret of missed training rides and short cuts. Of one too many slices of cake (and Tredici chocolate brownies). And anguish. Anguish about the pain and suffering that awaited us. Anguish about the intimacy with which we'd get acquainted to <a href="http://www.velominati.com/tradition/the-man-with-the-hammer/">The Man with The Hammer</a>. Anguish about our contribution to the team's cause. I suspect, that as we drifted off to sleep that night, more than one of us made a desperate plea to the leg fairy to look favourably upon us, and deliver a pair of legs worthy of the challenge that awaited us.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fK9dNA2Gcwk/VHxXk2jGHUI/AAAAAAAAeGQ/mfyF7pMhddY/s1600/HotChilleeDC042.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fK9dNA2Gcwk/VHxXk2jGHUI/AAAAAAAAeGQ/mfyF7pMhddY/s1600/HotChilleeDC042.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The HotChillee Racing formation</td></tr></tbody></table>Racing the Coronation Double Century at the pointy end of the race has several advantages. First on my list is that we get to start at a respectable time. None of this waking up with before the witching hour. Another perk is that by the time we start, we don't need to be wearing all the kit we own in the desperate attempt to conserve some body heat. As we each finalised our pre-race routine, checking tyre pressures and lubing chains, applying bum cream and smearing on sun tan lotion, we nervously brushed up on the details of the previous night's strategies. By the time we rolled down to the start chutes after the traditional official unofficial pre race photo, the field was like a deserted waste land. There was no sign that 192 teams had already departed on their odyssey, apart from a few evil-smelling porta-loos and the odd discarded energy bar wrapper.<br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fLeqDPBzFGI/VHxX-fmu4YI/AAAAAAAAeNc/TpMD79re7nU/s1600/HotChilleeDC099.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fLeqDPBzFGI/VHxX-fmu4YI/AAAAAAAAeNc/TpMD79re7nU/s1600/HotChilleeDC099.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Full steam ahead</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>With moments to go before the start of such an event, a calm typically descends on the start line. Be it quiet introspection, or mental visualisation of the assignment awaiting us, each rider has their own way of dealing with the nerves and uncertainty that slowly bubbles just beneath the surface. And just like that, we were on our way, our date with destiny having finally arrived. For a moment, I allowed myself to bask in the limelight, listening the the crowds cheering, the flutter of photographers capturing the moment, and the encouragement from our backup crew. I was rudely yanked back to reality by the diminutive figure of Ben swiftly vanishing up the street ahead. Time to ride bikes!<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9vXUEqurNgY/VHxYFMplBUI/AAAAAAAAePU/MtqYy0TBqQA/s1600/HotChilleeDC156.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9vXUEqurNgY/VHxYFMplBUI/AAAAAAAAePU/MtqYy0TBqQA/s1600/HotChilleeDC156.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bird's eye view of the action</td></tr></tbody></table>Our plan was to take the first hour quite conservatively, if averaging close to 38km/h can be called conservative for us amateurs. Like a single sentient being, we quickly formed up into our racing formation, the sum of the parts greater than the parts alone. As we raced along, we explored our fitness and sussed out our form. Just how good were the legs, and was everything working in unison? The answers to these questions would determine our individual race strategies for the remainder of the day. How long would our turns be on the front? Who were we going to ride behind? Where did we expect hit the wall?<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Gj3De3Wq0VY/VHcPG0rfFWI/AAAAAAAAd-k/sWXaWvTN46c/s1600/10599580_691576154289046_1574891327573343148_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Gj3De3Wq0VY/VHcPG0rfFWI/AAAAAAAAd-k/sWXaWvTN46c/s1600/10599580_691576154289046_1574891327573343148_n.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The lesser know racing skein formation</td></tr></tbody></table>With an hour of racing behind us he hit the first of the climbs, and almost immediately we lost our first rider. While the pros did not seem too concerned, those of us in the amateur ranks took cognisance of this. The position you never want to find yourself in, whether it's team time trialling like the DC, or two man stage racing like the Epic, is that of the weakest link. A world of torment and hardship awaits, for as long as you can fend of The Man with The Hammer, or as long as you can remain camped at the very back of the <a href="http://www.velominati.com/la-vie-velominatus/the-cave/">pain cave</a>, your mind a blank slate, save for the suffering and the single minded determination to give your team every last ounce that your body can muster. And now we were all one spot closer to being the weakest link.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-D1ixtu5KEDg/VHcPG2a7kEI/AAAAAAAAd-k/Z6f0G9uH-Tw/s1600/IMG-20141124-WA0027.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-D1ixtu5KEDg/VHcPG2a7kEI/AAAAAAAAd-k/Z6f0G9uH-Tw/s1600/IMG-20141124-WA0027.jpg" height="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An impromptu strategy meeting</td></tr></tbody></table>As we crested the second of the two long climbs Team HotChillee was down to nine riders. Not ideal, but with 50 kilometres to the neutral zone, it was manageable. Any thoughts of recovering on the downhill were dashed when I realised we were flying along at 84km/h. As I loitered on the back of the HotChillee Express, gripping my handlebars like my life depended on it, I got to witness Ben pulling off his best Peter Sagan super aero tuck impression as he dodged back markers and drove the pace forward. Luckily, I had some company dangling off the back, as one or two triathletes, manhandling their bikes like diesel mechanics playing tiddlywinks, seemed to share my complete and utter lack of descending ability.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-YdItJo5BakM/VHcdakWvwyI/AAAAAAAAd_M/zaop7qPMxS4/s1600/928738_821157111276702_918595350_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-YdItJo5BakM/VHcdakWvwyI/AAAAAAAAd_M/zaop7qPMxS4/s1600/928738_821157111276702_918595350_n.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No caption required</td></tr></tbody></table>Carrying our momentum, we raced for the neutral zone, dodging the slower teams ahead of us, and avoiding the traffic mayhem around us. One by one we dropped riders, all part of a sneaky plan hatched by our pros the night before. Get to within striking distance of the neutral zone and then launch an all out assault on the clock. Every opportunity to make up time could make a difference in the overall standings. We'd either pull it off and make up minutes, or implode spectacularly and limp home. So far, the plan was working, and we stopped the clock at a respectable 2h54 for 115kms. Time for us to meet up with our backup crew, to restock the energy supplies, and regroup as a team, before doing it all over again. We'd put in a solid effort, but the rumour running around the neutral zone was that we weren't even in the top five. Fortunately, we had 85 kilometres to turn things around. Eighty five kilometres that stood between us and a spot on the podium. Time to lay it all on the line.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Dm7ZjyvVUUA/VHxL8I65YsI/AAAAAAAAeB4/UQJ7YGa7EiM/s1600/HotChilleeDC225.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Dm7ZjyvVUUA/VHxL8I65YsI/AAAAAAAAeB4/UQJ7YGa7EiM/s1600/HotChilleeDC225.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The hills taking their toll</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>We rolled out of the neutral zone with 11 riders, and quickly got back up to racing speed. No time for small talk or taking in the beauty of the surrounding scenery. We had a task to do. As the pace quickened, the toll began to show, as one by one we started to lose riders. For 12 months I'd visualised making the steel bridge at 145 kilomteres with the team, donating whatever organs I had left before kicking in the clutch and limping to the next water point on my own. So you can imagine my surprise and sheer terror to discover that as we crossed the bridge with 25 kilometres to go to the neutral zone, I was one of the six. Months of mental preparation and training counted for nothing. I was in uncharted territory with a select handful of very talented bike riders. But I wasn't alone. Doctor Dylan too found himself unexpectedly in the wrong place. At least we had each other for inspiration and commiseration.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4U0LYklIRjA/VHxYZa9GoaI/AAAAAAAAeUs/BS9gkDBERPU/s1600/HotChilleeDC238.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4U0LYklIRjA/VHxYZa9GoaI/AAAAAAAAeUs/BS9gkDBERPU/s1600/HotChilleeDC238.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One little push and the photographer just happens to be there</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>As we crossed the mats into the final neutral zone we knew we'd just put in our race defining ride. Our backup crew did another fine job of replenishing our bodies and motivating our minds, as we waited for the rest of the team to regroup. We had one final push, 40kms of torturous rolling hills, ahead of us, and needed all the manpower we could muster. Team HotChillee rolled out of the final water point with 9 riders, each focussed on getting the team to the line in the quickest possible time. As our super domestiques, Captain Craig and the doctor duo of David and Doc, peeled off one after the other, each putting in a super human effort, lungs screaming and bodies battered, it was once again down to the final 6 to get us home. To make the sacrifices made by so many to count for something. By now, our pros were coming into their own, taking massive turns on the front and quietly encouraging each one of us to hang tough. With gentle encouragement and careful pacing we inched our way towards the dreaded Three Sisters - three rather average hills that assume Alpine Pass-like status after 180 kilometres in the saddle.<br /><div><br /></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ZYmjGIll2vg/VHQ86ZUK-bI/AAAAAAAAd5c/YBjBObe8SPw/s1600/HotChillee_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ZYmjGIll2vg/VHQ86ZUK-bI/AAAAAAAAd5c/YBjBObe8SPw/s1600/HotChillee_2.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Driving for home</td></tr></tbody></table><div>In my mind I could hear Paul Sherwin's commentary as we dug deep into our suitcases of courage one last time, cresting the final climb. A fast and furious dash to the fine was all that remained, and while no one dared to mention it, we wondered if we’d done enough to climb onto the podium, and this spurred us on one last time, up the finishing climb and across the line in a spectacular time of 5h09. All we could do now was wait.</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-W6clKjgHB0Q/VHchm5JvZQI/AAAAAAAAeAE/3eL0K6_ILhY/s1600/B3CmF40IgAAoW4y.jpg%3Alarge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-W6clKjgHB0Q/VHchm5JvZQI/AAAAAAAAeAE/3eL0K6_ILhY/s1600/B3CmF40IgAAoW4y.jpg%3Alarge.jpg" height="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shut up legs</td></tr></tbody></table><div>While Team HotChillee 2 briefly occupied the top step of the podium, the team was eventually bumped down into second, a tantalising 7 minutes behind the leaders, and a nerve-wracking 11 seconds ahead of third. Despite the celebrations and high fives all round, there was a sense that we could have done better. And as long as the team has that hunger, you can bet that we’ll be back, in better shape, and with an improved strategy, in the pursuit of those 7 minutes.<br /><br /></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-V13GzAx2nIM/VHxYe4tPWKI/AAAAAAAAeWQ/ce6kxxmjfQo/s1600/HotChilleeDC249.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-V13GzAx2nIM/VHxYe4tPWKI/AAAAAAAAeWQ/ce6kxxmjfQo/s1600/HotChilleeDC249.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stop the clock - 5h09</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CjSKlejDdWg/VHxYgM-scEI/AAAAAAAAeWo/zAyqxZYMCHM/s1600/HotChilleeDC251.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CjSKlejDdWg/VHxYgM-scEI/AAAAAAAAeWo/zAyqxZYMCHM/s1600/HotChilleeDC251.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A complete team effort</td></tr></tbody></table></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div>The Coronation Double Century had once again lived up to its reputation as being one of the premier endurance events on the South African calendar, with its fair share of drama, heartache, euphoria and camaraderie. It was an absolute privilege to share the road with some of the most professional pro athletes in the world, as well as some of the most courageous and committed amateurs. Bring on 2015.</div></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ILt3JT43jvs/VHxL-0xCVPI/AAAAAAAAeCo/oFH4pSoPGSQ/s1600/HotChilleeDC248.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ILt3JT43jvs/VHxL-0xCVPI/AAAAAAAAeCo/oFH4pSoPGSQ/s1600/HotChilleeDC248.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mixed emotions - equal parts elation and exhaustion</td></tr></tbody></table><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HelP4wKboHA/VHxYlMcU_II/AAAAAAAAeX0/6SBi0sPNl1s/s1600/HotChilleeDC282.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HelP4wKboHA/VHxYlMcU_II/AAAAAAAAeX0/6SBi0sPNl1s/s1600/HotChilleeDC282.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">HotChillee on the podium</td></tr></tbody></table></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-PFbxQWoZl64/VHcPGwDJF9I/AAAAAAAAd-k/IF-K_588qcw/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-PFbxQWoZl64/VHcPGwDJF9I/AAAAAAAAd-k/IF-K_588qcw/s1600/photo.JPG" height="540" /></a></div><br /></div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/VeloTales/~4/b2l-Q8v2uoA" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Velouriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06667777448042670759noreply@blogger.com6http://www.velotales.com/2014/11/coronation-double-century-2014.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5990819476840975001.post-34547600068924933342014-08-19T16:43:00.001+02:002014-08-19T16:43:25.884+02:00Trans Baviaans 2014<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">August in the Western Cape heralds in the beginning of spring. The fruit trees start to blossom, the cold morning nip begins to ease, and the days start getting noticeably longer. August is also the harbinger of doom, suffering and missed training opportunities, because August is Trans Baviaans month. A gentle ride from the time forgotten town of Willowmore, through the Baviaans Kloof Nature Reserve, to the seaside surf Mecca of Jefferys Bay - 230kms of breathtaking scenery, body pounding corrugations and leg crippling climbs.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-t3q62_yWLmo/U_NWJeIwb5I/AAAAAAAAciM/krFCh0Ea14g/s1600/photo%2B5%2B(1).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-t3q62_yWLmo/U_NWJeIwb5I/AAAAAAAAciM/krFCh0Ea14g/s1600/photo%2B5%2B%281%29.JPG" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pondering the pending pain</td></tr></tbody></table>With Old Man John officially retiring for the second and final time, Captain Craig and I had the enviable task of trying to find a replacement. After going through thousands of applications, from mountain goats to former professional bike riders, we settled on the somewhat risky option of Halfway Warren, better known for his inability to finish bike races either due to mechanical or physiological failure. Essentially, he was the combination of Captain Craig's questionable mechanical durability, and my disposition to regurgitate my stomach contents, all rolled into one bike rider. Above all, Halfway Warren had the right ratio of fun to raciness to qualify to ride with The Pink Fluffy Monsters. We might have lost Old Man John as a team mate, but he'd taken over the backup duties. Seven years of riding Baviaans had prepared him well for what lay ahead.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pVZgEQXWqc4/U_NV3k74HJI/AAAAAAAAcg8/ad7cGJPGSHs/s1600/IMG_20140815_190128.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pVZgEQXWqc4/U_NV3k74HJI/AAAAAAAAcg8/ad7cGJPGSHs/s1600/IMG_20140815_190128.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This certainly isn't the school hostel</td></tr></tbody></table>In this modern era of Garmins, Strava and social networking, it has become rather difficult to successfully pull off a secret training campaign. What is the need of a secret training campaign? Forget about the competition, this is intra team skulduggery. In any team race, it's not about being the strongest member in the team, it's about not being the weakest member. Being the weakest member in the team usually means an early and prolonged solitary visit to the pain cave. And I'm not talking about dancing around the entrance. You go right to the back, like a kid in the naughty corner, and you usually don't come out.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fWx6DljTtw0/U_NWGFOwi_I/AAAAAAAAcic/mOwDlRNi0Ug/s1600/photo%2B3%2B(1).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fWx6DljTtw0/U_NWGFOwi_I/AAAAAAAAcic/mOwDlRNi0Ug/s1600/photo%2B3%2B%281%29.JPG" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">First road trip stop. The Riversonderend pie shop</td></tr></tbody></table>Back in the day you could easily fib about how much riding you were doing - knock a couple hours off the reported duration of your rides, fake illnesses, or have unexpected work commitments. The more creative you were, the more chance you had of your team mates buying your subterfuge. Come race day you could show your hand and hopefully the bluffing worked. Unless you rode with even sneakier partners. Nowadays, the second you finish a ride, your statistics are automatically plastered all over the internet for anyone to see, which only serves to motivate your team mates to train more. An arms race of one-upmanship. It takes careful planning, cautious use of technology, and subtle ruses to effectively convince your team mates that you haven't seen a bike in ages. And this year Captain Craig emerged as the master of disinformation.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LwzvWUpUZuA/U_NWFHwdHDI/AAAAAAAAchk/pm7j1CV-_80/s1600/photo%2B2%2B(1).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LwzvWUpUZuA/U_NWFHwdHDI/AAAAAAAAchk/pm7j1CV-_80/s1600/photo%2B2%2B%281%29.JPG" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Second road trip stop. Halfway had a dodgy Wimpy omelette. We smelt it for the rest of the weekend</td></tr></tbody></table>After a night spent in luxury compared to our traditional hostel accommodation, we slowly made our way to the start. In what must have been a misunderstanding, the organisers hadn't seeded us this year, and so we had to start with the ordinary folk, segregated from the race snakes. After Wikus's usual pre-race mumble, the 11th Trans Baviaans got under way to the cheers of the 7 locals who had turned out, and the 300 plus backup drivers. The Pink Fluffy Monsters quickly made our way through to the front group, something we've become quite accustomed to in recent years. Our pre-race talk was of riding with our brains this year, avoiding the front of the group, and taking it easy for the first 100kms.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FFrK9XRzJa0/U_NWG44ckEI/AAAAAAAAciY/xmiPQjg_LvI/s1600/photo%2B3%2B(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FFrK9XRzJa0/U_NWG44ckEI/AAAAAAAAciY/xmiPQjg_LvI/s1600/photo%2B3%2B%282%29.JPG" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A collection of colonial memorabilia</td></tr></tbody></table>Once the front group has established it's always good to see who is there. We spotted the usual contenders, and couple of pretenders, and our old friend - The Beast - a man mountain of a bike rider. We had poached Halfway from The Beast's team, and now we had to deliver on the smack talk we'd been spurting for the past few months. As big and as strong as The Beast is, he has an Achilles heal - hills. In a move aimed more at sending a message than causing total destruction, Captain Craig upped the pace on a small climb, causing The Beast to get dropped like a bag of hammers. And suddenly there was one less team in the lead bunch to worry about.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IGbdfwBX6mI/U_NWIFmIqxI/AAAAAAAAch0/OqxXFkgBv00/s1600/photo%2B4%2B(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IGbdfwBX6mI/U_NWIFmIqxI/AAAAAAAAch0/OqxXFkgBv00/s1600/photo%2B4%2B%282%29.JPG" height="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Pink Fluffy Monsters</td></tr></tbody></table>Our HotChillee friends, Dylan and David, were also present in the lead bunch, and with five of us wearing the same kit, we could sense the slight confusion all the HotChillee kit was causing, given that the maximum allowable team size is 4. Cyclists aren't known for their intellectual abilities, especially when hurtling along with oxygen deprived brains, and this again was evident when 3 or 4 donkeys decided that the <a href="http://anti-joke.com/anti-joke/page/42019-why-did-the-donkey-cross-the-road-to-get-to-your-house-knock-knock-who-s-there-heehaw">other side of the road</a> looked like a better option. In a scene that had all the makings of <a href="http://youtu.be/S2oymHHyV1M">this video</a>, the donkeys crossed the road, through the middle of bunch. Chaos and pandemonium ensued, along with grown cyclists shrieking and howling like children at the determined equines. For a brief second, the level of testosterone in the bunch plummeted with all the high pitched squealing and arm flapping, before returning to its normal argy bargy levels.<br /><br /><blockquote align="center" class="twitter-tweet" lang="en">Lots of <a href="https://twitter.com/HotChillee">@HotChillee</a> at this year's <a href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/Transbaviaans2014?src=hash">#Transbaviaans2014</a>. Both teams usually in the top 10, hopefully top 5 this year! <a href="http://t.co/0PM5ERi2sk">pic.twitter.com/0PM5ERi2sk</a><br />— Yolanda Walsh (@YolandaWalsh) <a href="https://twitter.com/YolandaWalsh/statuses/500556810781474816">August 16, 2014</a></blockquote><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script> The Pink Fluffy Monsters had done everything right so far, avoided burning too many matches, stayed out of trouble and generally ridden with more brains than brawn - a rare thing for this team. And then disaster struck. I punctured. I hoped that the liquid sealant in the tyre would plug the hole, but judging by the amount of sealant covering my legs it was sealing anything but the hole it was intended to seal. A quick shout to Captain Craig, a plug and a bomb later and we were back on the go, about 2 minutes off the lead group. Captain Craig and I chased back alone, and just as we we were beginning to wonder whether Halfway was indeed a double agent for The Beast, he appeared around a bend and gave us a much needed helping hand onto the back of the bunch. Crisis averted, for now.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-hCLv0xq49jU/U_NWI9hA6bI/AAAAAAAAciE/48c6ylKrqMw/s1600/photo%2B4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-hCLv0xq49jU/U_NWI9hA6bI/AAAAAAAAciE/48c6ylKrqMw/s1600/photo%2B4.JPG" height="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Team 15 in 9th place at checkpoint 2</td></tr></tbody></table>We whizzed through the first compulsory stop, grabbed some supplies, and were back on the road in a flash - we'd talked about how we wanted to minimise our stops, and so far things were going according to plan. We also took just long enough to let the main contenders get a gap on us, leaving us to ride at our own pace for the next 40kms - a crucial section with 4 big climbs that can make or break the whole race. At precisely four hours and six minutes, I felt the first onset of cramps. And I don't cramp. The last time I had cramped was after 10 hours on our <a href="http://www.velotales.com/2014/03/2014-big-day-out.html">Big Day Out</a>. I hoped this was just a friendly reminder to keep eating and drinking. But these were more than just reminders. They were passengers, companions, silent accomplices. Nagging and pestering me when I least expected it. Calves, quads, hamstrings. Nothing to do but suck it up an keep on going.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wRcbdDYcYVs/U_NaK7DDMfI/AAAAAAAAci0/B3KsfQvXaQU/s1600/10548993_10152634105001425_7622989446414114520_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wRcbdDYcYVs/U_NaK7DDMfI/AAAAAAAAci0/B3KsfQvXaQU/s1600/10548993_10152634105001425_7622989446414114520_o.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Monsters crossing a river</td></tr></tbody></table>Just as we were cresting the big climb, my nemesis made an appearance. As the strength slowly drained from my legs, my stomach started to churn like a washing machine on pre-wash. Captain Craig and Halfway Warren were champions, taking turns to push my sorry body towards the fourth checkpoint. After a masterful tactical vomit and some soup and bread, we were back on our bikes and tearing off down the hill, taking a mere eight minutes to attach lights, lube chains, restock on fluids, and expel the evil in my belly.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--FsISvquct0/U_NaK8gyANI/AAAAAAAAciw/hWxHvKFLpC4/s1600/10557180_695894583823195_3288664141586168171_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--FsISvquct0/U_NaK8gyANI/AAAAAAAAciw/hWxHvKFLpC4/s1600/10557180_695894583823195_3288664141586168171_n.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chasing back on after a puncture, Captain Craig's 46 tooth chain ring causing some pain</td></tr></tbody></table>With me firmly camped out in the pain cave, it was great every now and then to get a visitor. Halfway Warren popped in for a few minutes earlier in the day, but didn't stay for long. Every now and then I'd step out for some fresh air, hoping to leave the cave for good, but knowing it was just a brief departure. On one such excursion, I was quite surprised to find Captain Craig getting comfortable in my cave. While he kept me company, Halfway took a massive turn on the front into the ever present headwind as we made our way to checkpoint 5. Halfway wasn't pink, or fluffy, but he certainly was a monster!<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0gE_pLbpZpA/U_NWHJR8VlI/AAAAAAAAchs/pSkrQw9w_wU/s1600/photo%2B3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0gE_pLbpZpA/U_NWHJR8VlI/AAAAAAAAchs/pSkrQw9w_wU/s1600/photo%2B3.JPG" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Old Man John's backup station. A study in efficiency</td></tr></tbody></table>As we rolled into the checkpoint, we were greeted by Old Man John, and any thoughts of him getting old or slow were quickly banished. He was one step ahead of us, anticipating our needs, predicting our whims. Old Man John was as efficient as the SARS help desk in tax season, getting us back on the road in less than 3 minutes, much to the envy of all the other backup crews there.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uWVtXaRS44U/U_NWF32hy8I/AAAAAAAAchc/Dd3wXH5l-qU/s1600/photo%2B2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uWVtXaRS44U/U_NWF32hy8I/AAAAAAAAchc/Dd3wXH5l-qU/s1600/photo%2B2.JPG" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A place for everything, and everything in its place</td></tr></tbody></table>With the penultimate stop behind us we set off towards the NeverEnder - a hill, much as the name implies, that just goes on and on and on. Not particularly steep, but just enough to suck the life from your aching body. Captain Craig and Halfway Warren gave me the honour of setting the pace. It was either that, or pushing me later when I popped again. Staring at my heart rate monitor, I found that 152bpm was the number I could hold. One beat more and I was aware of the Grim Reaper's presence. One beat less and it felt like I was coasting. Pedal stroke after pedal stroke we climbed that hill, not a word said between the three of us, yet we moved in almost perfect synchrony. We rolled into the final checkpoint as the last glimmer of twilight faded.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GKlQoBwzzxo/U_NWFP-U1EI/AAAAAAAAchM/6CoLo8jfGSk/s1600/photo%2B1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GKlQoBwzzxo/U_NWFP-U1EI/AAAAAAAAchM/6CoLo8jfGSk/s1600/photo%2B1.JPG" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Glad it's over</td></tr></tbody></table>Old Man John was on form again, and we were back on the road in the blink of an eye. By now Captain Craig had well and truly left the pain cave, and in a severe case of long distance white line fever, was continuing his love affair with his dinner plate sized 46 tooth chain ring, much to the discomfort of Halfway Warren and myself. Grit your teeth, ignore the pain in the legs, and do everything you can to hold onto the wheel in front of you. With Halfway and myself worried about the approaching lights from behind, and Captain Craig focussed on the finish, we ate up the final kilometres in no time, despite the discomfort of some very unwelcome single track.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4t7GPs-Ipdc/U_NV3oxteaI/AAAAAAAAcg8/8xD5QQ-KFVc/s1600/IMG_20140817_073526.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4t7GPs-Ipdc/U_NV3oxteaI/AAAAAAAAcg8/8xD5QQ-KFVc/s1600/IMG_20140817_073526.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another fantastic sunrise in JBay</td></tr></tbody></table>The Pink Fluffy Monsters finished in 9h36, claiming 10th place and were the first placed 3 man team. We were also the first unseeded team, the first team team in HotChillee kit, and the first to finish 4 bottles of wine later that evening. In the eleven times that I've done this event, despite having had several bad patches, this was the slickest ride we've done. While everything didn't go according to plan, we had fun, went to some dark places together, and emerged from the ordeal as mates, which, ultimately, is the reason why we ride.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5XUMolEX7U8/U_NWHtyqdiI/AAAAAAAAch8/FqtNY_AAdEA/s1600/photo%2B4%2B(1).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5XUMolEX7U8/U_NWHtyqdiI/AAAAAAAAch8/FqtNY_AAdEA/s1600/photo%2B4%2B%281%29.JPG" height="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A true team effort, in everything we do</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/VeloTales/~4/OFkdaj_Nwzs" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Velouriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06667777448042670759noreply@blogger.com0http://www.velotales.com/2014/08/trans-baviaans-2014.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5990819476840975001.post-83416560108932905452014-08-07T14:02:00.000+02:002015-04-15T13:39:15.063+02:00Transkei 2014<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><p>Sometimes it's not about speed, watts per kilo, winning times, heart rate zones, or bike weight. Sometimes it's just about riding bikes, sharing experiences, looking around, enjoying the journey and having fun.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FHXyoEwXM8o/U-NfL8K_c1I/AAAAAAAAcZA/JLuHTGyEUZg/s1600/20140513_080402.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FHXyoEwXM8o/U-NfL8K_c1I/AAAAAAAAcZA/JLuHTGyEUZg/s1600/20140513_080402.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our merry team of Transkei adventurers</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VYiYFCJQYVA/U-NfUdazu4I/AAAAAAAAcZg/IEM-8WwjgS0/s1600/20140513_091730.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VYiYFCJQYVA/U-NfUdazu4I/AAAAAAAAcZg/IEM-8WwjgS0/s1600/20140513_091730.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some local fauna and flora</td></tr></tbody></table>Perhaps I am getting old, but sometimes I think we forget why it is we cycle. Why we fell in love with this ridiculous activity in the first place. We focus on training programs and race rosters, worry about our weight and Strava segments, secretly stalk our competitors for signs of weakness (or so I've heard) and completely forget about the simple things. The sense of freedom and independence. The spirit of adventure. The companionship of friends.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-TIlxDx2cIEg/U3iIvpgubUI/AAAAAAAAZgI/rjtq1UK82zQ/s1600/VIRB0117.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-TIlxDx2cIEg/U3iIvpgubUI/AAAAAAAAZgI/rjtq1UK82zQ/s1600/VIRB0117.JPG" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Action beach shot</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1vEJ-5dBlro/U3iIkR6YGYI/AAAAAAAAZec/_igKmO5qkZA/s1600/VIRB0096.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1vEJ-5dBlro/U3iIkR6YGYI/AAAAAAAAZec/_igKmO5qkZA/s1600/VIRB0096.JPG" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A stroll across a river</td></tr></tbody></table>Acting as guinea pigs for <a href="http://capecycletours.com/">Cape Cycle Tours</a> (Captain Craig's day job), we headed off to the Transkei's Wild Coast for a week of bike riding, relaxing and basket buying. Our adventure would start in Morgan's Bay, and end in Coffee Bay several days later. In between that, we had free reign to do as we pleased - ride bikes, afternoon naps, sundowners on the beach - anything and everything to forget about the outside world.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Z2K7YGVXUPU/U3dvBxqXhFI/AAAAAAAAZW0/06HcKw7g8IY/s1600/IMG_20140515_120126-MOTION.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Z2K7YGVXUPU/U3dvBxqXhFI/AAAAAAAAZW0/06HcKw7g8IY/s1600/IMG_20140515_120126-MOTION.gif" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Long, pristine golden beaches</td></tr></tbody></table>We're rather quick to pack our bags and head off to exotic places all over the world, and yet we have some amazing places right here in South Africa. This was my first trip to the Wild Coast, and I had no idea what to expect. Somewhere in the back of my mind I imagined bananas and pineapples growing wild, but that was as far as my expectations went.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-smgwi0MTmUY/U-NfYuEpkhI/AAAAAAAAcZ0/tZb32yon8OY/s1600/20140513_152039.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-smgwi0MTmUY/U-NfYuEpkhI/AAAAAAAAcZ0/tZb32yon8OY/s1600/20140513_152039.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A boat trip sure beats a swim</td></tr></tbody></table>The route was rather simple - keep the sea on the right, and keep pedalling until you get to the next overnight stop. Generally this involved riding on golden beaches, metres from the roaring ocean, with occasional detours inland to avoid obstacles. Low tide allowed us to ride quite easily on hard packed beach sand and make fantastic progress, but unfortunately, the tides change. High tide had us riding in the softer sand higher up the beach, and if you weren't a master of riding sand before we started our adventure, you quickly learned a soft sand riding technique that worked for you. Even if it involved walking. And we all walked at some point. Progress was measured by counting river crossings, objectives were limited to a suitable place for the next snack stop, and the schedule was to the nearest change of tide.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vNzwx71vYyU/U-NfePBvwSI/AAAAAAAAcaI/dRs_FYttrBc/s1600/20140515_133658.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vNzwx71vYyU/U-NfePBvwSI/AAAAAAAAcaI/dRs_FYttrBc/s1600/20140515_133658.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The view never gets boring</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-WfP2vczM-_o/U-Nfhg2UawI/AAAAAAAAcak/9e9uaKFWzvw/s1600/20140515_135434.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-WfP2vczM-_o/U-Nfhg2UawI/AAAAAAAAcak/9e9uaKFWzvw/s1600/20140515_135434.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another picture postcard view</td></tr></tbody></table>Nothing fazed us - taking 7 hours to ride 35kms was 7 hours well spent. Crossing a "shark infested" river on the incoming tide at night (a few Zambezi sharks were spotted several years ago) was just another story we'd have to retell over a couple of beers.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KEyeokEYSZU/U-NfK4bd3HI/AAAAAAAAcY4/hdkLSSf7ljQ/s1600/20140511_173401.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KEyeokEYSZU/U-NfK4bd3HI/AAAAAAAAcY4/hdkLSSf7ljQ/s1600/20140511_173401.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunrise</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1ioTd6QIuWg/U-Nfi2WG_AI/AAAAAAAAcaw/hZhzWIMUn-s/s1600/20140516_070331.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1ioTd6QIuWg/U-Nfi2WG_AI/AAAAAAAAcaw/hZhzWIMUn-s/s1600/20140516_070331.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A surreal sunset</td></tr></tbody></table>Need a snack break? Then stop and have a snack break. Want to look at the view? Then stop and look at the view. Don't want to swim across a river? Then wait for Captain Craig to steal a canoe and ferry you across.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9qZlJuhKF58/U3iE0Wn0uGI/AAAAAAAAZak/4QQ2gQDl4ig/s1600/VIRB0057.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9qZlJuhKF58/U3iE0Wn0uGI/AAAAAAAAZak/4QQ2gQDl4ig/s1600/VIRB0057.JPG" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The local cows keeping a watchful eye on us</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-k6NTctIKS7E/U3dvB4APunI/AAAAAAAAZWw/N-i0xRqG1Pw/s1600/IMG_20140515_131838.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-k6NTctIKS7E/U3dvB4APunI/AAAAAAAAZWw/N-i0xRqG1Pw/s1600/IMG_20140515_131838.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Captain Craig guessing the river depth</td></tr></tbody></table>From the endless beaches, to the lush indigenous forests, from the friendly locals and cheerful kids, to the quaint hamlets and farm animals - every twist and turn promised something new. Nothing got old, nothing got boring.<br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gCRiXcw8ND0/U-NffpIAAXI/AAAAAAAAcaY/bOKTd-QHjbc/s1600/20140515_134917.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gCRiXcw8ND0/U-NffpIAAXI/AAAAAAAAcaY/bOKTd-QHjbc/s1600/20140515_134917.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cuddling at the Hole in the Wall</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gW5ozOL1MMY/U-NfE02S1yI/AAAAAAAAcYw/3e9TptUn6No/s1600/10325340_630061467068443_3876891571400111624_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gW5ozOL1MMY/U-NfE02S1yI/AAAAAAAAcYw/3e9TptUn6No/s1600/10325340_630061467068443_3876891571400111624_n.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Post ride snacks with a sublime view</td></tr></tbody></table>And after each day's riding we'd talk about the riding, recalling the day's adventures, recounting tales to our non riding partners over a few beers and some good food. The river crossings, the soft sand, the cows on the beach, and the non-existent pineapples. Bike riding how bike riding was meant to be.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QrSPnEOIBJw/U-NfahvCHAI/AAAAAAAAcaA/Eplshj-zRWs/s1600/20140513_155414.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QrSPnEOIBJw/U-NfahvCHAI/AAAAAAAAcaA/Eplshj-zRWs/s1600/20140513_155414.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beer, and the best peanut butter and jam sandwich ever!</td></tr></tbody></table></p><br /></div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/VeloTales/~4/PR77OnsyRnc" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Velouriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06667777448042670759noreply@blogger.com1http://www.velotales.com/2014/08/transkei-2014.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5990819476840975001.post-74695337997855824042014-07-18T10:03:00.000+02:002014-07-18T10:03:43.736+02:00London to Paris 2014<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-i3JuvU4KLfY/U8ZmB-uXUCI/AAAAAAAAcO8/XYm8MESMcRU/s1600/IMG_7523.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-i3JuvU4KLfY/U8ZmB-uXUCI/AAAAAAAAcO8/XYm8MESMcRU/s1600/IMG_7523.jpg" width="560" /></a></div><br />For my first overseas event as a <a href="http://www.hotchillee.com/">HotChillee</a> Ride Captain I had the privilege of riding their flagship event - <a href="http://www.londres-paris.com/">London-Paris</a>. Being a Ride Captain is a serious undertaking requiring special skills and talents, with the added responsibility of looking after hundreds of cyclists out on the roads of a foreign country. While on bikes. With sponsored goodies. Basically, a cycling holiday in a far away land with some like minded people. A serious undertaking indeed.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--4yLfIYSkS8/U8jQ19ly_cI/AAAAAAAAcS4/bgV2VxFMJ0Q/s1600/20140627_075658%25280%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--4yLfIYSkS8/U8jQ19ly_cI/AAAAAAAAcS4/bgV2VxFMJ0Q/s1600/20140627_075658%25280%2529.jpg" height="560" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A cycling holiday</td></tr></tbody></table>But back to the sponsored goodies. (Anyone remember <a href="http://youtu.be/8lgLYGBbDNs">Wayne's World</a>). Feeling like a kid on Christmas day I couldn't wait to see what Father Christmas (aka The Bull) had organised for us. There were things that I couldn't wait to try out, new <a href="http://www.lemarq.cc/">Lemarq</a> kit with my name on it, pristine white <a href="http://www.shimano-lifestylegear.com/gl/fw/products/road/001sh_r320.php?pSccontentsPro">Shimano</a> shoes and a dayglo green <a href="http://www.lazersport.com/product/bike-adult-road/helium">Lazer</a> helmet. Then there was some new stuff - <a href="http://sportiquebodycare.com/products">Sportique's</a> range of warming and cooling creams - that I wasn't quite sure how to use, or where to apply. Nothing worse than discovering on race day that warming cream shouldn't be applied to "sensitive areas". I am however a firm believer in Sportique's&nbsp;<strike>bum cream</strike>&nbsp;Century Riding Cream - tried and tested. We also received new <a href="http://sites.garmin.com/edge/">Garmin GPS</a> units, and at the risk of sounding like an old age pensioner overwhelmed by technology, I was a little apprehensive. I'd just mastered the previous version after several months of trial and error, and now I had a new techno gadget to play with. But play with it I did, and it really is an amazing little gizmo. I felt like such a local being able to give the names of roads and towns that we were riding through.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-lq9pBVCq0q8/U7WiIw6oyqI/AAAAAAAAb-8/9lYurXLC-0A/s1600/IMG-20140625-WA0006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-lq9pBVCq0q8/U7WiIw6oyqI/AAAAAAAAb-8/9lYurXLC-0A/s1600/IMG-20140625-WA0006.jpg" width="560" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A bag full of goodies</td></tr></tbody></table>After a quick ride to the local coffee shop with some fellow Ride Captains to make sure the bikes were in perfect working order, we headed off to registration. As the riders&nbsp;steadily rolled in it was great to see all the new faces, and recognise a few familiar ones here and there.&nbsp;From race snakes to weekend warriors, seasoned veterans to rank amateurs, the excitement was palpable. London to Paris is an opportunity for normal everyday people to live the lives of the professionals for 3 days, enjoying rolling road closure and full mechanical support but without the scrutiny and pressures of supporters, reporters and grumpy team managers.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-oIlKK5Hin1w/U8TwENSSJTI/AAAAAAAAcNA/uQwZ2ANqoTY/s1600/JD4_3217.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-oIlKK5Hin1w/U8TwENSSJTI/AAAAAAAAcNA/uQwZ2ANqoTY/s1600/JD4_3217.jpg" height="560" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The start of my first London to Paris</td></tr></tbody></table>I'd been assigned to look after Group 5, along with Steely Dan and Whisk. We weren't the speed demons or the celebrity racers, but we were a tenacious and determined bunch of guys and girls focussed on one single objective - getting to Paris with as much fun as possible. We'd leave the Strava KOMs for the front groups, and instead focus on trying to be the most awesome group on the road - all for one and one for all sort of thing. After several months of hype and build up we were ready to finally unleash our inner racers, each of us a little worried that we hadn't trained enough, or had one too many pork pies in the run up to the start. None of that mattered now, our only goal was to get to Paris in one piece. It was time to put behind us the weeks and months of training, the early mornings and the missed social occasions, and go bike riding. For the next 3 days we had a new family - admittedly, a rather large and extended family in all shapes and sizes. What we lacked in raceyness we made up for in brawn, beauty and bravado.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CztVrA3fp2I/U8ZqKT4DopI/AAAAAAAAcPc/hD_4tS-S6Q0/s1600/L2P2014Stage2-59.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CztVrA3fp2I/U8ZqKT4DopI/AAAAAAAAcPc/hD_4tS-S6Q0/s1600/L2P2014Stage2-59.jpg" width="560" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Best bike shed ever</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ezVv9HrKMOI/U8ZxGcQ2G3I/AAAAAAAAcQQ/BbVFPcw1CRI/s1600/10386908_609608072485855_4077375929696015827_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div>Stage One was a testy 160km affair from Imber Court to Folkstone, with almost as much time spent standing about in lay-bys as we spent winding our way through the English countryside. As a South African, we love to whinge about anything, from the cost of bike parts to the latest performance of our sports teams. With this in mind, it was reassuring to discover that the state of some of the roads we travelled along was well below what we're used to back home. I'm quite sure there are still some Group 5 riders lurking at the bottom of potholes or stuck at the side of the rode with pothole induced catastrophic bike failure.<br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CWkIdbojT-o/U8ZqIP2b5pI/AAAAAAAAcPU/2pDvfiVM2PM/s1600/L2P2014Stage3-132.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CWkIdbojT-o/U8ZqIP2b5pI/AAAAAAAAcPU/2pDvfiVM2PM/s1600/L2P2014Stage3-132.jpg" width="560" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Is there a better place to ride?</td></tr></tbody></table>The highlight (or lowlight) of stage one was a short stretch of tarmac up a steep little rise, known to locals as The Wall. This over-hyped hill struck fear through the peloton, and as we approached it a silence fell over the riders. From the build up you would have sworn we were in for an Alpe d'Huez type climb, and for some it may well have been their&nbsp;Alpe d'Huez. With guts, determination, and the occasional Hand of God we made it, not only slaying the hill, but slaying some demons too. As we twisted and weaved our way through the quaint English lanes towards the coast we got some time to chat to our fellow riders. On the bike we're all just bike riders, united in our objective of getting to Paris. Every rider has a unique story - when they started riding, why they started riding, why they are doing London-Paris. As we chatted the miles whizzed by, our confidence increasing and our nervousness ebbing away. In 160kms we'd gone from a ragtag bunch of strangers to a group of like minded cyclists, a third of the way to Paris.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZiXwaTxNLMg/U8TxYfKFp-I/AAAAAAAAcOE/WW0ba5pIN2g/s1600/DSC_1423.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZiXwaTxNLMg/U8TxYfKFp-I/AAAAAAAAcOE/WW0ba5pIN2g/s1600/DSC_1423.jpg" width="560" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Quiet contemplation</td></tr></tbody></table>Stage Two from Calais to Amiens promised another day of great bike riding - 170kms of rolling farmlands through North West France. While the profile resembled something like a seismic graph during an earthquake, Group 5 was all smiles at the start. We were now cycling in France, on pristine French roads, with friendly French motorists and amazing French scenery. What was there not to smile about - perhaps the fact that we'd lost a Ride Captain - Whisk - to the same pressures of the outside world that we were all trying to forget about. In his place we'd inherited James, a diminutive L2P veteren, certified ginger and all round nice guy. As we left Calais, each rider slotted into their position in the peloton, their familiar little spot in the coordinated fluidity of the bunch. The speed machines near the front, the conversationalists in the middle, and the gravitationally challenged towards the back. Much like the riders, the Ride Captains had their spots too. James up front setting the pace and abusing the radio, with Dan and myself at the back, bringing up the rear, helping with punctures and mechanicals and occasionally applying a helping hand.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-KU4z8BinRMI/U8TwByAMD2I/AAAAAAAAcM4/qHHk3-6FbGk/s1600/DSC_0341.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-KU4z8BinRMI/U8TwByAMD2I/AAAAAAAAcM4/qHHk3-6FbGk/s1600/DSC_0341.jpg" width="560" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Myself and Dan, keeping an eye on things</td></tr></tbody></table>While the riders in Group 1 tend to think that they are the real racers, the riders in Group 5 displayed way more determination and grit as they battled their way towards Amiens. As the day wore on, the hills got a little steeper, the legs got a little heavier, but the smiles got bigger. Not even a brief downpour could dampen our spirit as we rode between the poppy lined wheat fields, through&nbsp;picturesque French villages, and rolling farm lands. And despite the tired bodies and tired minds, the group was starting to show the signs of a well oiled machine, a cohesive unit moving as one. And because we had such a good time on our 170km adventure from Calais to Amiens, our protective motorbikes and lead car gave us a few extra scenic kilometres around Amiens for free.&nbsp;C'est La Vie.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-12-HBD0GB3k/U8TwHl2viCI/AAAAAAAAcNQ/3pxxv4Ux5BI/s1600/JD4_3988.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-12-HBD0GB3k/U8TwHl2viCI/AAAAAAAAcNQ/3pxxv4Ux5BI/s1600/JD4_3988.jpg" width="560" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The roads of Northern France</td></tr></tbody></table>Stage Three dawned bright and early for Group 5, and even if the prospect of reaching Paris should have had everyone feeling elated, there was a slight sense of melancholy hanging about. This was the last day of our adventure, one last time to forget about the real world and enjoy our time on the bike. The amazing thing about cycling in France is that the scenery just gets better and better, from tree lined avenues to the rustic churches. Much like the scenery, so too were the riders just getting better and better. Rachel who couldn't go downhill was now a descent queen, Simon who couldn't go uphill resorted to pure power to conquer the climbs, and Mark who thought he belonged in Group 6 finished strongly with his Group 5 companions. Each and every rider had a similar tale to tell, from conquering their doubts, to overcoming injury, from arriving at registration without shoes, to having the airline lose their bicycle. And yet here we were, within spitting distance of Paris, 500kms behind us.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jj64SlcX1M0/U8TwN2QajgI/AAAAAAAAcNk/iDU5RaJDh8E/s1600/L2P2014FinishInParis-22.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jj64SlcX1M0/U8TwN2QajgI/AAAAAAAAcNk/iDU5RaJDh8E/s1600/L2P2014FinishInParis-22.jpg" width="560" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Despite the rain, still smiling</td></tr></tbody></table>And what would a HotChillee London-Paris event be without rain? To meet our expectations, Mother Nature saved the worst for last, and belted us with rain, wind and cold for the final 50kms into Paris. And despite the conditions, rolling up to the Arc de Triumph, on a bicycle, with 400 other cyclists was truly spectacular. Riding the fabled cobblestones of the&nbsp;Champs-Élysées like the pros we all watch on TV in July was a dream come true, and not nearly as easy as they make it look. As we crossed the finish line, in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower, to the cheers of family and friends, our cycling epic finally came to an end. We started as 50 strangers with a distant objective, and finished as 50 friends with a shared achievement, some great stories, and a common bond.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Qz8y0yp_DJM/U8Txr92aODI/AAAAAAAAcOM/jyZvVRjm01s/s1600/L2P2014FinishInParis-46.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Qz8y0yp_DJM/U8Txr92aODI/AAAAAAAAcOM/jyZvVRjm01s/s1600/L2P2014FinishInParis-46.jpg" height="560" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We made it</td></tr></tbody></table>Thanks to all my fellow riders, Ride Captains, HotChillee crew and organisers for making this a fantastic experience, and I can't wait to see everyone at the next event.<br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-46r-VdT66Hg/U8TwJB1QOrI/AAAAAAAAcNY/voGXmwFWkSE/s1600/JD4_5204.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-46r-VdT66Hg/U8TwJB1QOrI/AAAAAAAAcNY/voGXmwFWkSE/s1600/JD4_5204.jpg" height="560" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The finish line, in Paris.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rblVWSE-Rcg/U8jQ0Nk63hI/AAAAAAAAcSs/Sg7b2sHwU3c/s1600/20140626_055241.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rblVWSE-Rcg/U8jQ0Nk63hI/AAAAAAAAcSs/Sg7b2sHwU3c/s1600/20140626_055241.jpg" height="560" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ride Captains getting ready.</td></tr></tbody></table></div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/VeloTales/~4/hnLkPz-E278" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Velouriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06667777448042670759noreply@blogger.com0http://www.velotales.com/2014/07/london-to-paris-2014.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5990819476840975001.post-12364144058239047432014-05-08T15:51:00.000+02:002014-05-08T16:31:42.932+02:00Panorama Tour 2014<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Once a year, in a far flung corner of South Africa, several hundred intrepid road cyclists gather for the annual <a href="http://www.panoramatour.co.za/">Panorama Tour</a>. White River is transformed from a sleepy hollow village to a hub of cycling activity. Despite this being the Tour's ninth year, the locals still aren't accustomed to seeing so many lean, lycra clad people riding skinny wheeled bikes in one place, and it's not uncommon to receive a strange look, or overhear a whispered comment wherever you go.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uqkBlkfi_7k/U2igwmOjCDI/AAAAAAAAZA0/ep7PHkjLXBc/s1600/IMG_20140425_140541.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uqkBlkfi_7k/U2igwmOjCDI/AAAAAAAAZA0/ep7PHkjLXBc/s1600/IMG_20140425_140541.jpg" width="560" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The only flat section of road in Mpumalanga</td></tr></tbody></table>It takes a special kind of person to tackle the challenge of the Panorama Tour, usually falling into one of two categories (and occasionally both). The first is the mountain goat - that special breed of cyclist that weighs less than a 6 year old, looks like they could do with a hearty meal, and usually stands around 5 feet tall. Then there are the sufferfest addicts - those cyclists that relish the challenge of spending hours in the pain cave, surviving on mental strength long after the physical strength has been sucked from their bodies, pushing their limits further and further in a desperate attempt to stay in the peloton for just one more hill. And that is what the Panorama Tour is all about, hill after hill after hill.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-pgU3uY_c2bc/U2igwpE6YKI/AAAAAAAAZA0/53cekmz4ZJE/s1600/IMG_20140425_153211.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-pgU3uY_c2bc/U2igwpE6YKI/AAAAAAAAZA0/53cekmz4ZJE/s1600/IMG_20140425_153211.jpg" width="560" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our trusty steeds, having survived the trip in one piece</td></tr></tbody></table>It's quite obvious that Captain Craig and I don't fall into the skinny mountain goat category, and despite being above average climbers in the thicker air of Cape Town, the thin mountain air of the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Veld#Lowveld">Lowveld</a>&nbsp;clearly shifted us into the pain warrior category. Having ridden this event <a href="http://www.velotales.com/2011/05/panorama-tour-2011.html">several years ago</a>, we knew what the 4 days ahead had in store for us. Knowing that we weren't in great race shape thanks to our crazy adventure at <a href="http://www.velotales.com/2014/04/the-36one-challenge-2014.html">The 36One Challenge</a>&nbsp;we agreed to ride with our brains and not rely on brawn. Follow the wheels, stay out of trouble, and save the legs for hills.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bGlOKb2esqo/U2igwmnEu6I/AAAAAAAAZA0/sroQFMg8X0k/s1600/IMG_20140426_064453.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bGlOKb2esqo/U2igwmnEu6I/AAAAAAAAZA0/sroQFMg8X0k/s1600/IMG_20140426_064453.jpg" height="560" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nervous apprehension</td></tr></tbody></table>Stage One is supposed to be a gentle introduction to the hills and dales around White River, but due to the poor condition of some of the roads, an alternate route lay in wait for us. A route that included far more hills than I was prepared for. Shortly after the gun I knew that I was in for a world of suffering as I struggled to stay with the bunch in the neutral zone. Just as I was getting warmed up and ready for a comfortable ride in the peloton, a crash at the front caught Captain Craig and myself out and so our torment began as we chased the peloton for 15kms. The only benefit to riding on our own was that we got to see the potholes coming, rather than be suddenly surprised by them. If the route we were riding was the better option, I'd hate to see the state of the roads on the original route. Each patchwork collection of potholes was usually followed by several abandoned bottles, and a little further on, one or two forlorn looking cyclists frantically fixing punctures.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ChxpLy0HnCM/U2t_6ydUSJI/AAAAAAAAZFU/-UdzM78aKMg/s1600/10172797_741999539164593_319335527069170637_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ChxpLy0HnCM/U2t_6ydUSJI/AAAAAAAAZFU/-UdzM78aKMg/s1600/10172797_741999539164593_319335527069170637_n.jpg" height="560" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spot Captain Craig.</td></tr></tbody></table>The Voracious Llamas (our team name - we don't take ourselves too seriously) probably had 30 minutes of easy riding in the safety of the peloton before we headed down a mountain pass. I did a decent job of conquering my fear of going downhill fast and managed to not lose too much time to Captain Craig, but I felt a growing fear in the pit of my belly. As it was an out and back route, I knew were would shortly be going back up the pass, and although I was hoping my climbing legs would make a miraculous return, I secretly knew I'd left them behind in Cape Town. At the bottom of the climb we immediately jettisoned some of the larger guys as I tried my best to hang on to the bunch. Slowly but surely the mountain goats ripped the bunch apart, leaving a small group of riders caught in no man's land. Looking around, I saw my the familiar figure of Red John. But something was wrong. Instead of me hanging onto his reinforced pocket, he had a new tag along - <a href="https://www.google.co.za/url?sa=t&amp;rct=j&amp;q=&amp;esrc=s&amp;source=web&amp;cd=6&amp;cad=rja&amp;uact=8&amp;ved=0CFsQFjAF&amp;url=https%3A%2F%2Ftwitter.com%2FAnriettes&amp;ei=MX5nU7_2NNCw7Abi34H4CQ&amp;usg=AFQjCNGXdTfXpLrLDqMFqr7Za1x7a-8wBA&amp;sig2=CPDn8GiVuigxVLjUETD3uA">Anriette Schoeman</a> - the Pocket Rocket (I don't think she got that nickname from hanging onto pockets, but it did seem quite apt).<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FI_WaLTv3kk/U2t_69UzPqI/AAAAAAAAZFY/9UQlk6KUMUs/s1600/10150634_743804465650767_7734480462494022421_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FI_WaLTv3kk/U2t_69UzPqI/AAAAAAAAZFY/9UQlk6KUMUs/s1600/10150634_743804465650767_7734480462494022421_n.jpg" width="560" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Red John and the Pocket Rocket (The Voracious Llamas in the background up the hill)</td></tr></tbody></table>As I dangled off the back of our small bunch, trying everything to awaken my comatose legs, all the while suffering like a sled dog, the haze of pain would clear and I'd catch a glimpse further up the road. I'd see cyclists hanging onto their partner's pockets or gladly accepting the Hand of Shame. As I looked around for my partner, hoping that a similar service would be extended my way, I finally caught sight of him. On the front. Driving the pace. He was the reason I was dangling. The reason I would vomit a little into my mouth with each acceleration. The reason the snot was dripping from my face and making a mess of my bike. I gave everything I had to stay in contact up that climb, and as we crested the top, Captain Craig and I jumped across to a small chase group, leaving our companions behind. Up ahead we caught sight of a largish bunch which would offer us some safety and protection, and the promise of an easier ride to the finish.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DbmPJyD27Kk/U2igwt96H3I/AAAAAAAAZA8/H6bDtnK30eA/s1600/IMG_20140427_061713.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DbmPJyD27Kk/U2igwt96H3I/AAAAAAAAZA8/H6bDtnK30eA/s1600/IMG_20140427_061713.jpg" height="560" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Purple Harry. At times I felt like a Hippo on a bike!</td></tr></tbody></table>For the second time that day we chased, Captain Craig doing most of the work while I tried to recover. We soon made the junction, and I looked forward to some quiet time. My partner however wasn't as content to sit back and enjoy the scenery. Like bookends on a bookshelf, there was a HotChillee rider at either end of our little group, one riding with brains, and the other relying on brawn. With 20kms to go Captain Craig finally peeled off the front and gave me The Look. Not the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MdMdJAdzpYQ">Armstrong-Ullrich Look</a>, but rather the&nbsp;"I did too much on the front and my legs are finished" Look. I'd be lying if I said I didn't derive a slight bit of joy from that. The Voracious Llamas continued to toil away, knocking off the remaining kilometres. I'd also be lying if I said I didn't enjoy dishing out the Hand of Shame to the now well cooked Captain Craig - given the state of my legs, I doubted I'd get many similar opportunities on this Tour.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='560' height='465' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/dzZx7BhU4a4?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0' /></div><br />Stage Two was billed as a rest day - a gentle roll down to Nelspruit, with a few bumps back up to White River - the perfect day to convince my legs that going uphill wasn't so bad. After a far more sedate neutral section the racing got under way and almost immediately I realised that once again my legs weren't going to come to the party. Between my fear of dying at the bottom of a pothole the size of a small European country, and my inability to ride up hill, I again found myself dangling off the back of the bunch. Thankfully, Captain Craig was paying attention, and came back to offer some assistance. Not a pocket or the Hand of Shame kind of assistance, but some silent nurturing up the hills until we were able to mount a real chase on roads more suited to our physiques. We made it safely back to the protection of the herd, although I could sense Captain Craig wasn't looking forward to having to repeat this too often.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-EQfdXaMYT_k/U2igwn2K9HI/AAAAAAAAZA8/sqyT0yv6bUc/s1600/IMG_20140427_093548.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-EQfdXaMYT_k/U2igwn2K9HI/AAAAAAAAZA8/sqyT0yv6bUc/s1600/IMG_20140427_093548.jpg" width="560" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The reason we ride!</td></tr></tbody></table>I tried to make a concerted effort to look around and take in some of the beautiful scenery of Mpumalanga during a respite in the pain and suffering. We hit the 50km mark just outside Nelspruit with an average of 39km/h, and from there on there was only one way back to White River - up. My legs performed admirably, given the poor form they were in, and we were able to ride in the second group on the road - the group containing the leading contenders for the mix category including Red John and his Pocket Leach Anriette. While I was quite envious of all the people hanging onto pockets, I also found some new admiration for the racing ladies. As tough and as hard as I was finding it, you could tell that they were having just as tough a time, digging deep into their reserves of happy thoughts and memories in an effort to numb the pain. Hanging onto a pocket isn't a magic carpet ride - they're only doing that because they are already on the limit.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-TbzSJ1vdlL0/U2E3EW0RmfI/AAAAAAAAY1Q/5jLlbgnprEE/s1600/IMG_20140427_093720.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-TbzSJ1vdlL0/U2E3EW0RmfI/AAAAAAAAY1Q/5jLlbgnprEE/s1600/IMG_20140427_093720.jpg" height="560" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My view for most of the stage</td></tr></tbody></table>After what seemed like an eternity of conquering hill after hill we made it back to the sanctury of the finish line and our rewards for the day's efforts - the tastiest chelsea bun you'll ever taste. Despite the Tour being halfway done, the Queen stage awaited. If I'd suffered so much on the easy day, what was the following stage going to bring? As tough as I was finding the riding, The Voracious Llamas were doing well - top 20 on the general classification, and top 10 in our category. The real question was whether we could hang on to those positions.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='560' height='465' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/zxuol2wwbPw?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0' /></div><br />Stage Three dawned to near perfect weather after a thunderstorm the night before. We lined up for the start, looking around rather tentatively, wary of the hills that lay in wait for us. After a rather sedate start things began to pick up as we approached the first climb of the day. For the third day running, I'd left my climbing legs behind, and I was once again relegated to dangling off the back of the bunch. This didn't bode well for the big climb later on, but right now, that didn't matter. We'd deal with that challenge when it came around. Using every muscle in my body I somehow managed to stay in touch with a fair sized bunch as Captain Craig once again set the pace on the front. I'm not sure he felt the dagger stare I was giving him, as I wished all sorts of evil things upon him. As my legs started to weaken I encountered the click that no cyclist likes to hear. The click that happens when you ask for just one more gear and the gear shifter responds by letting you know that you are already in the easiest gear. The click is usually followed by the stare of disbelief - the look back at your rear wheel to confirm that the shifter isn't lying. The reality is that the shifter never lies, and no amount of looking at the gears will magically invoke an additional one. It came down to a duel between my brain and my legs - my legs wanting to throw in the towel and my brain determined to hang on to the back of the bunch. While it could have gone either way, my brain eventually won as we crested the top of the climb. A small victory for now in the larger brain versus legs battle.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-aFzdcH9AdqE/U2E54twTLiI/AAAAAAAAY3g/Zp1bAFitjhc/s1600/IMG_20140429_083510.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-aFzdcH9AdqE/U2E54twTLiI/AAAAAAAAY3g/Zp1bAFitjhc/s1600/IMG_20140429_083510.jpg" height="560" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Smiling at the start, before the suffering began</td></tr></tbody></table>Our reward was a fast and furious descent into Sabie, and as much fun as the descent was, we all knew what lay in wait for us - a 9km climb up the feared Long Tom Pass. The early slopes lulled me into a false belief that I might have found some climbing legs, which was dramatically shattered by Red John and the Pocket Rocket as they attacked the other mixed teams. While I wasn't the first rider out the back of the bunch, I was an early casualty. Unlike the previous climb, Captain Craig dropped back almost immediately, and with some quiet words of encouragement guided me up the hill. Anything more than quiet encouragement would have been greeted with either a slap or industrial action like a go slow or strike. Other riders weren't as lucky as we had to endure the endless encouragement and motivation poor old Barry was on the receiving end of. Barry is certainly a far more tolerant partner than I am, although it was quite gratifying dropping him and his partner just so that there could be silence in the bunch.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tSMjF27joiQ/U2igwrR8fVI/AAAAAAAAZA0/7sfQo_oJiho/s1600/IMG_20140429_083518.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tSMjF27joiQ/U2igwrR8fVI/AAAAAAAAZA0/7sfQo_oJiho/s1600/IMG_20140429_083518.jpg" width="560" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another day, another set of mystery legs</td></tr></tbody></table>By the top of the Pass we were several hundred metres off the peloton, and it looked like we had a tough and lonely 50km ride ahead of us to the finish. We did have two things in our favour - we'd just hooked up with two riders in a similar situation, and we were on territory that I prefer - rolling hills. With the peloton in sight, we powered along, slowly but surely making up ground, until we were within touching distance. Feeling like pros, we worked away through the cars stuck behind the peloton, giving it everything we had. We made the junction, and the safety and security of the bunch, and promptly discovered that Barry had too.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sEH0GSjK6K4/U2t_7Qw6gNI/AAAAAAAAZFg/-UGxvHi5vrY/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sEH0GSjK6K4/U2t_7Qw6gNI/AAAAAAAAZFg/-UGxvHi5vrY/s1600/photo.JPG" width="560" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We got the full&nbsp;French five finger countdown!</td></tr></tbody></table>While life at the back of the peloton was warm and cosy, The Voracious Llamas knew the last few climbs on the outskirts of White River would be our (well, my) undoing. After once again successfully navigating the craters that the locals casually refer to as moderate potholes, we hit the hills and I went backwards almost immediately. Just as quickly, Captain Craig offered up The Hand of Shame, which I gladly accepted. While beggars can't be choosers, I have to say that Captain Craig was a bit miserly in the application of The Hand. If I am going to sink to such depths, I expect to get good value for my shame. As we limped up the climbs, oblivious to everything but the haze of pain surrounding us, I discerned a faint recognisable drone coming from behind. Barry! Or more accurately, Barry's partner. That was all the motivation I needed, and using the last remaining ounce of strength left in my spaghetti legs we clawed our way over the remaining climbs to the finish. Anything for some peace and quiet.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='560' height='465' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/9hwU1mtoRz0?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0' /></div><br /><br />The final day of the Tour dawned, and as much as I hated the climbs of the previous days, Stage Four was the stage I really feared. A lumpy 36km time trial. Just over an hour of riding. Yet I knew that a world of pain and suffering awaited me. I'd rather ride for 8 hours in the middle of a Cape winter than have to endure the torture that lay ahead. Our plan for was simple - don't go out too fast, and hopefully have a good run to the finish. We had also lost a bit of time to Red John and the Pocket Rocket on the previous day's climbs, and we were secretly hoping that the flatter route would let us take back some of that time.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-eD0ecCBHyac/U2igwsHUSVI/AAAAAAAAZA0/spFkuzjnrOI/s1600/IMG_20140429_104451.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-eD0ecCBHyac/U2igwsHUSVI/AAAAAAAAZA0/spFkuzjnrOI/s1600/IMG_20140429_104451.jpg" height="560" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A snotty and sweaty Garmin</td></tr></tbody></table>Starting 19th last, in near perfect conditions, we rolled down the start ramp. From there on it was pedal to the metal as we took turns setting the pace. Unsurprisingly, I still didn't have climbing legs, and despite my best efforts we lost a bit of time on the early climbs. By the time we hit the halfway mark I was starting to warm up, and for the first time in days was able to contribute to the team effort. After what felt like an eternity, with snot and sweat flying, lungs gasping and legs aching we crossed the line for the final time. While we hadn't lived up to expectations, we'd had a fantastic time racing bikes in some truly magnificent parts of South Africa, and an added bonus being we'd pipped Red John and the Pocket Rocket by 6 seconds, for 18th place overall and 9th in category.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='560' height='465' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/I56f20isc6Y?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0' /></div><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kMw7Ya5qSZ8/U2FBdjYoSqI/AAAAAAAAY5k/gRSifbcY0fM/s1600/IMG_20140429_105217.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kMw7Ya5qSZ8/U2FBdjYoSqI/AAAAAAAAY5k/gRSifbcY0fM/s1600/IMG_20140429_105217.jpg" height="560" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another finisher's medal for the collection</td></tr></tbody></table>And just because he hadn't had enough fun riding bikes, we packed our bikes in the car and headed off to Sabie to ride Long Tom Pass - just because we could.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MF4WYv4T31E/U2igwgmplDI/AAAAAAAAZA0/4Bl_XQvYlYA/s1600/IMG_20140429_125548.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MF4WYv4T31E/U2igwgmplDI/AAAAAAAAZA0/4Bl_XQvYlYA/s1600/IMG_20140429_125548.jpg" width="560" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Finally, time to stop and look at the view</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QpyryOK0_IY/U2igwoQRwHI/AAAAAAAAZA8/oU6u62-ohmE/s1600/IMG_20140430_125041.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QpyryOK0_IY/U2igwoQRwHI/AAAAAAAAZA8/oU6u62-ohmE/s1600/IMG_20140430_125041.jpg" height="560" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Homeward bound</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /><br /></div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/VeloTales/~4/Gt4rJdSNGNQ" height="1" width="1" alt=""/>Velouriahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06667777448042670759noreply@blogger.com0http://www.velotales.com/2014/05/panorama-tour-2014.html